Everyday Objects to Gold

(set: $school to 1)Doctor McRee hands you a brochure for the Friedrich Finck Technical School of Alchemy. On the front, it states that it's still under construction. As far as you can tell, this is only a negative thing in terms of making this an ideal place to learn. The correct choice is suddenly clear. Were it a glass door, you would likely run straight into it, barely injuring yourself, but scaring the piss out of your mother. [[Take a lot of drugs]] [[Get a better hobby]]

(if: $school is 1)[Who needs education when you can freely explore the world of pharmaceuticals? ]Doctor Francis McRee places a platinum platter with a plethora of pills on the table in front of you. You have no idea what all these pills are. He also places a small beaker half-filled with some sort of medicinal liquid. (either:"It's a shiny purple color, oddly similar to the color of the dress your mother wore whenever you had important company.", "The liquid is bright pink like cotton candy and it smells like garlic knots.", "You hope it's Kool-Aid.", "The beaker is cold and the liquid is a green color, close to emerald, but not quite.", "The liquid's sky blue, like one of those eleven dollar tiki shots tourists throw back at resort bars.", "It's a dark purple that reminds you of a bruise you had in middle school.", "It looks like milk, but gray.", "The liquid bubbles like a witch's potion. A corny TV witch to be clear, not a bonafide wiccan.", "Looks like something you used to cook up with your coven. Fingers crossed that it is.") [[Take the drugs]] [[Refuse to take the drugs without knowing what they are]]

You rebuff the benevolent Doctor McRee, explaining to him that you shall find a better--likely less valuable--hobby. "It's just that I want something a little less taxing," you [[explain]].

Doctor Francis McRee listens. "I understand," he says plainly, "[[Come with me]]."

(css: "font-size: 2.5em")[You are taken out back and shot.] (link: "Try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

{ <script> load('Media/Nixon2.png'); load('Media/snake.jpg'); load('Media/room.png'); </script> }(if: $hardball is true)["Finally we can move on with this," Doctor McRee grumbles. ]You take the drugs. Every last pill goes down your gullet and you knock back the beaker, which leaves an unpleasant aftertaste. (if: $hardball is not true)[Doctor McRee, the lovely man, offers you some orange juice to wash it all down.](if: $hardball is true)[He pours you some orange juice and sits it on the table, motions for you to wash everything down with it. He walks to the other side of the room and back again as he waits for you to finish.] [[Drink the orange juice]] [["No thank you, I'm allergic to orange juice."]]

Doctor McRee refuses to tell you what they are, insisting that it's crucial to the process for you to be completely ignorant of the potent medicines about to enter your body. You're trying his patience. [[Take the drugs]] [[Refuse again]]

Doctor McRee takes out a machete and tells you that if you do not take the drugs he will have to forcibly remove you from the premises. You appreciate that he is so upfront about this. [[Take the drugs]] [[Tell Doctor McRee you will leave]] [[Try to grab the machete]]

The doctor thanks you for being a total waste of his [[time|Come with me]].

You leap forward and swipe at the machete. Your fingers reach out for it... (set: $machete to (random: 0,3)) (if: $machete is 0)[You grabbed the machete! Holy spit! You didn't expect to get [[this far]].](if: $machete is not 0)[What the hell were you thinking? Doctor McRee pulls back the machete just in time. He stares you down. Tiny flames leap from his enraged nostrils. [[Run]] [[Stay and meet your death]]]

Doctor McRee stares at you, eyes wide. "Hey, dude-o, why don't you toss over that machete to me?" He sweats. "Just give it on back now." [[Taunt]] [[Kill Doctor McRee]]

You hightail it out of the room. As you run, you remember something you saw above Doctor McRee's desk the first time you met him. You feel like it's really important that you remember. You haven't taken the time to run like this since high school. You should do this more often; it's really not that bad. Good cardio for sure. [[What is it that you saw above Doctor McRee's desk?]]

In a moment of peace that is wise beyond your years and experience, you put your arms out wide and close your eyes. "What are you doing?" Doctor McRee asks, the machete dropping to his side. "Bring me death! Release me into the after!" You look him straight in the eyes, "Silence this pain which has multiplied in every heartbeat. I have insulted you at your place of work. Use your disproportionate rage to seek retribution. Strike me so my blood may spill as payment!" Doctor McRee didn't realize how much of a nutcase you are. He raises the machete [[once more]].

Mmmmm, that's some tangy stuff. The pills drown in the citrus, the capsules like tiny ships diving down into the sea in some mass Viking funeral. The pills go to work fast, too. Dr. McRee leaves you to your own devices, tells you he hopes to be seeing you. As he goes, he looks like a parallelepiped you once knew. You sit and think about animatronic rodents for a little too long. Inside the fur, inside the steel, there is an electronic glow. Once as a child, you saw the beating heart of one of these exotic beasts. You wondered if you pulled back your skin, would you find wires and flashing lights, too? But there's something in the wall now. Something here. [[Something's there|too long]].

This is a game. By the magic of digital programming, you are not allergic to orange juice! Your usual stomach will not be involved. The entire experience is virtual, so you can experience that sweet tangy flavor at last! Such are the glories of modern technology.(if: $finaloffer is true)[ Besides, didn't you just decide to move on with the drugs *because* of the orange juice? What are you, suicidal?] [[Drink the orange juice|allergic]]

You drink the orange juice, finally able to enjoy that sweet, fruity flavor. Now you know what everyone has been talking about. (if: $finaloffer is true)[Unfortunately, you are suicidal.](if: $finaloffer is not true)[Unfortunately, you're allergic to orange juice.] That tangy orange goodness taints your tongue and torments your throat while Doctor McRee watches in horror. Your throat balloons like a pufferfish in the hands of an eager taxidermist and you choke to death. (link: "Try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

You turn a corner and see an exit ahead. As you run towards safety, you remember: You saw awards. Awards for Doctor McRee for competitive track races at his college. You remember him explaining that by the end of his time there, he had beaten sixteen different school records. As your legs pump hard and fast towards the exit, you realize that even a few years out of school, it's obvious that he's the fastest runner you know. There's a hand on your shoulder. [[Turn around]]

"You didn't think you would get away, did you?" It's Doctor McRee. "Don't you remember I set seventeen different school track records by the time I graduated? Is there no blinky blinky between your ears?" [[Beg for forgiveness|explain]] [["Wasn't it sixteen school track records?"]]

Doctor McRee's face contorts. "How dare you question my track records! Did you run for them? No, I ran for them, damn it! I should know I broke seventeen records! I remain at legendary status there!" Doctor McRee proceeds to play a [[game]] with you.

In this game, he pretends you are foliage on his journey through the safari. The machete hacks at you repeatedly until you are multiple, bleeding pieces, clearing the way for him and his party; he's hoping to find a lion out here today. Your final mess is as pulpy as it is crimson. Over the course of the game, you die fighting for a truth that is important to you, a truth that calls on you to fight no matter the consequence. You are a martyr for the integrity of sports statistics. All the sports statisticians you've ever known attend the funeral Doctor McRee puts on for you in the darkest hours of that night. The funeral is not an excessive affair, which you would appreciate. As your body soars from the bridge and splashes into the water, your soul imagines a roar of applause for all that you've done and all that you'll be remembered for. In truth, there is a splash, then there is silence. Maybe next time, you just take the drugs and drink the orange juice and we get on with it? (link: "Try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

Don't look at the snake inside the wall. It is having a birthday party. On its special day, you should leave it be. [[Look at the snake]] [[Disregard all reptiles]]

{<script> if (x != -1){x = 1}; spin('Media/music/welcome.mp3'); </script> }You really shouldn't [[look at the snake|baseball bat]]. [[Avert your eyes just in time|Disregard all reptiles]]

{<script> if (x != -1){x = 1}; spin('Media/music/welcome.mp3'); </script> }Thank goodness. It is wearing such a hideous hat right now. It really doesn't want to be seen. Anyways, let's do the logical thing here and get you locked up tight in a small room. You don't know what could happen with those drugs and it looks like Dr. McRee skipped out for lunch. [[Lock yourself in a room]] Oh? You've got a friend nearby. How quaint. I guess they can monitor your behavior instead of a locked door. [[Look at your friend]].

You walk behind him and whisper in his ear, "You are such a BUFFOON! A buffoon of the lowest order, you BUFFOON! I have the chopper because I am not a buffoon like YOU are a BUFFOON! Do your little ears even HEAR the gospel of buffoonery that leaks easy from your lips?" You jab Doctor McRee in the kidney like you used to do with your father when you wanted to feel more powerful than someone. "Your time is up, BUFFOON doctor." [[Kill Doctor McRee]] (Set: $buffoon to true)

With your holy hand, you raise and lower the machete, striking Doctor McRee's neck repeatedly. He gurgles desperately as you cut through last of his vocal cords. (if: $buffoon is true)[What a buffoon.] With some sobriety, you remember that Doctor McRee could have killed you just a minute ago. You were that close to the end of your journey, the end of what had been such an extraordinary life so far. You think of all that you could have missed, cherry blossoms and mortgage payments and another *Cheers* spin-off. You fully detach his head from his body and you look into his dull, lifeless eyes. There is a distinct hazel to them that you hadn't noticed before. It occurs to you that even decapitated, [[Doctor McRee is quite handsome]].

You open your eyes. That's not gold. That's blood. Liters of red blood spilling out from the neck of the top authority on the transfiguration of everyday objects to gold. Sirens in the distance. This man had expertise, chutzpah, and--most pertinently--[[connections]].

"Jeez, you're a real cherry cheesecake, you know? I'm not gonna kill ya. Never was. This machete's a precious souvenir I got on a safari. It would be a shame to gussy it up." (set: $hardball to true) You lower your arms with mixed feelings about missing out on the sweet release of death. "But I would ask one thing of you--and I think this is reasonable--can you just take the heaping pile of unidentified drugs so we can get on with the learning already?" [[Take the drugs]] [[Refuse the drugs yet again]]

(set: $finaloffer to true)Doctor McRee drops the machete, walks to another room and returns with a metal chair. He slings it against the wall and one of the legs punches a hole near one of his fifteen Beksinski prints. "WHY WON'T YOU COOPERATE? DID YOU NOT COME HERE TO LEARN? AM I NOT PROFESSING ENOUGH KNOWLEDGE UNTO YOU? I SPENT ALL MORNING MAKING SOME DELECTABLE FRESH-SQUEEZED ORANGE JUICE FOR YOU AND WE HAVEN'T EVEN GOTTEN TO THE POINT THAT I CAN OFFER IT!" [["I...I just want to leave."|explain]] Wait a sec. Did he say orange juice? [[Take the drugs]]!!!

{<script> if (x != -3){x = 3}; spin('Media/music/snake.mp3'); </script> }You remember a day when you were young and your father beat a snake with a baseball bat. There it was right on the driveway. He was yelling and grunting when you walked outside. The bat rushed down and down and down again. When an animal like that dies everything inside can look the same to a child so that's how you remember it. You know now that a snake has an esophagus, intestines, hell, even a colon. But that snake--head flattened on the concrete--it was only a mess of green and yellow and red. Your dad was pleased. He told you that you were safe. That the snake would never hurt you. He hugged you, the bat still in his hand, snake blood reaching up his sleeve. That night you wondered if that snake had meant to threaten your dad. You wondered who that snake [[left behind]].

Snakes have children in abundant litters ranging anywhere from one to one hundred-fifty baby snakes. The snake is an organism subject to r-selection (rather than k-selection), meaning that they have many children knowing not all of them will survive, but hoping at least some of them will (rather than taking special care of just a few children). In these large litters, it is common that most of them will die unless [[the environment is particularly ideal]].

{ <script> load('Media/gucci.gif'); load('Media/choose.png'); load('Media/wienerdog.png'); load('Media/qingfan01.png'); </script> }In late September, your father walked down the driveway to the mailbox. From the mailbox, he grabbed several primary-colored flyers for fast food companies and a bill for someone who hadn't lived there in four years. He thought of the Camaro he drove in high school, how he went a hundred thirty-five on the highway that one night, how the transmission fluid leaked out green that day he lost it misjudging the intentions of an eighteen-wheeler. His nostalgic love for that car kept him distracted as seventy snakes swam towards him. His thoughts of burnt rubber and pumping pistons allowed them the opportunity for surprise as they [[ascended his legs]] which were left bare by mere cargo shorts.

Years later, you find out your father is featured on the Wikipedia page for garter snakes. It states that "despite the entirely manageable nature of each bite on its own, combined they allowed for severe enough blood loss to cause death." By the time you reached him, the only snakes remaining were the four or five he managed to kill in his writhing. You never saw the others again. His picture on Wikipedia has been changed three times by people you have never met, people who shouldn't normally have access to these photos. In the second, he was young. He stands tall, beaming next to a slick yellow Camaro, [[just washed]].

{<script> if (x != -3){x = 3}; spin('Media/music/snake.mp3'); </script> }You probably shouldn't have looked at the snake. [[See all dogs as wiener dogs]] [[Wear sunglasses for the rest of your life]]

{ <script> load('Media/nuclear.png'); load('Media/baseball.jpg'); </script> }Good thinking! Nothing better for heavy doses of unknown drugs than trapping yourself in a room you don't recognize! Is it time to bug out? [[Yes]] [[No]]

{ <script> load('Media/Nixon3.png'); load('Media/flag.gif'); load('Media/Nixon4.png'); load('Media/stare.png'); </script> }Your friend is Richard Nixon. (live: 4.5s)[ [[Shit]]. ]{ <script> if (x != -10){x = 10}; spin('Media/music/wild.mp3'); </script>(live: 9.2s)[<script>Sound.fade(0,300); x = -86;</script>](stop:) }

As you shake his hand, you think of your friend who might be anywhere right now, who might be in a closet bound and gagged with a sizable portion of the Nixon Tapes. You remember the banana custard you spilled on their shirt on their birthday. You remember thinking, "If their shirt was yellow, maybe they wouldn't be digging their custard spoon into my shoulder right now." You palm the scar fondly every morning when you wake up. It occurs to you that you don't actually remember what your friend looks like or whether you have a friend at all. Still, you must [[save them from the slickest of Ricks|save him from Tricky Dick]]!

You extend your hands and Richard Nixon thinks he's getting another round of the glum grip of love, but you show him what happens when he masquerades as one of your friends. You stick your claws in his neck and you rip and you tear. The mask is tricky and only comes off in bits, falling to the floor. Behind the mask, you find Richard Nixon's true form. He is bloodier than he is in the textbooks, which is pretty metal, but probably not good for the carpet. It's probably safe to assume Doctor McRee's mixture of drugs have kicked in at this point, but you don't think about that. You're focused on the task at hand. [[Drag Richard Nixon outside]].

{<script> if (x != -70){x = 70}; spin('Media/music/outdoor2.mp3'); </script> }You walk outside and find Richard Nixon in drag. "This is odd," you think, "for I just saw Richard Nixon inside." You are thrown into a near-fatal fit of cognitive dissonance, but you're able to remember that: You learned this in the second grade! Everyone knows that [[Richard Nixon uses teleportation]]. It's like the French always say, "[[This is not the real Richard Nixon|not the real dick2]]."

{<script> if (x != -11){x = 11}; spin('Media/music/patriot.mp3'); </script> }Richard Nixon was the President of the United States of America starting on January 20th, 1969. During his presidency, Richard Nixon was exposed to many national secrets including the identity of the Zodiac killer, the true meaning of Mount Rushmore, and the original recipe for Native American genocide. It has long been supposed that each President is also imbued the power of teleportation. This practice began after the assassination of William McKinley on September 6th, 1901. McKinley's last words are reportedly, "You should have saved me. You should have made me disappear. I am the monkey. I am the Marlboro Man. I am the moon inside your monastery. Wipe me away and the complications are absolved! I could have been renewed, but I have been tainted!" McKinley, like all deceased Presidents, addressed a large congregation of schoolchildren on his deathbed. These children had been corralled from all the nearby schools that had nothing better to do with the children than have them watch two bullets defeat a man. One of the children forced to witness the terminal croak of McKinley was [[Deborah Fullerton]].

Deborah was an abnormal child, able to bend time and space to form portals in which an object or person would be able to travel from one place to another. While the other children scoffed at McKinley's whiny pleas, Deborah took it upon herself to approach the FBI with what she had to offer, hoping that she could save a future President and get her name in the local paper. Maybe then Jonathan would notice her. He'd fall head over heels for her, bring her chocolates and flowers. Then she'd teleport him to eighth ring of hell so he could go fuck himself. You don't talk bad about Debussy, bitch. So Deborah [[contacted the FBI]].

Deborah approached the FBI with high hopes, but was disappointed to find that it would not be formed until seven years later. Moreover, the FBI would be called the Bureau of Investigation. This was a gross name and she knew it. Federal Bureau of Investigation is so much better. "Federal," she'd say. "Federal." She'd stay up late and just say it to herself, look up at the ceiling, and sigh. But she waited. Seven years later, the Bureau of Investigation took its sweet time to open up. She teleported herself right over and [[told them what was up]].

"We've never heard of this McKinley guy and teleporting isn't really our specialty. What is a President?" Many forget that the beginnings of the FBI were infuriatingly asinine. Deborah never forgot, though. She tried to be reasonable at first, but by the time they carried her outside, she was screaming. Deborah was the first person ever removed from the FBI building. All because she wanted to help the President teleport to safety when they urgently need a potty break or when they are being shot at. She didn't even know Jonathan anymore. This was out of the kindness of her heart. But alas, she went home. In 1908, she remained the only person capable of teleportation. She was [[miffed]].

Wouldn't you be miffed? You put your faith in bureaucracy and it doesn't work out. Now that's just unnatural. Bureaucracies are known for being both reasonable and efficient when handling new situations. In 1912, President Theodore Roosevelt is shot in the chest while giving a campaign speech. Deborah is enraged. She sprints to the nearest bakery and devours three entire loaves of pumpernickel bread. It's the only thing keeping her calm these days. Deborah contacts the Bureau of Investigation [[again]].

"The President of the United States of America? Oh yes, we've heard of the position. We investigated the term. We are smart. Mr. Theodore Roosevelt? Oh, he's simply the Former President of the United States of America. Besides, he is actually a rather large bear in a pantsuit, so the bullet did not kill him." The Bureau of Investigation had no intention of allowing Deborah to fulfill her lifelong mission of saving the President of the United States of America. This was [[less than ideal]].

On July 1st, 1935, Deborah woke up. As a pleasant surprise, there was still some pumpernickel left. Deborah took some time to re-acquaint herself with the world, obviously putting time aside to visit local fisheries and to visit her favorite bakery. They greeted her as a hero returned from war, dressing her in the finest wheats. Once reconnected with the goings on of the world, Deborah approached the Federal Bureau of Investigation yet again and for the first time. Legend has it that she stood outside the building for twenty-six days merely whispering "Federal Bureau of Investigation" to herself. These reports are wildly exaggerated. Deborah entered the building and immediately tracked down J. Edgar Hoover, the current director. This is what [[she said to him]].

"President McKinley died with my eyes on him. His last wish was for all Presidents to teleport to bathrooms in times of need and elsewhere in times of assassination. I am the fulfiller of that wish, the radiant beam of teleportation that this country has been missing. Now that the Federal Bureau of Investigation has a reasonable name, I am assured that it is run by a reasonable person." "I am a reasonable person," said J. Edgar Hoover, who was known by all to do reasonable things. "You must be a very reasonable person," Deborah reiterated, obviously speaking to J. Edgar Hoover, the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. "I don't know anyone else more reasonable," said J. Edgar Hoover, his face aligning itself with a nearby measuring stick. "You are the paragon of reason. If only the world had a conscience as divine as your conscience, Mr. Hoover," she spoke honestly, her words directed at John Edgar Hoover, who stood before her doing reasonable things as he would do forever, never deviating from doing the morally correct, rational human thing to do, even when faced with situations where he didn't have to be such a repugnant pissant to people. He was truly a man who used his unopposable power to be reasonable, to better mankind, to set the justice system of the United States on a reasonable path and keep on the right side of history. [[Anyways]].

After Deborah demonstrated the method in which she could teleport, J. Edgar Hoover agreed that it was a good idea for every future President to learn how to teleport. They worked together to form a regimen known to the interior offices of the FBI as "FILGOT" or "Fuck It Let's Go Over There." Rumor has it that the original file is so complete that it has not been altered to this day. After completing the training, Franklin D. Roosevelt, the sitting President, was quite impressed by his new ability and invited Deborah to share a [[dinner with him]].

(set:$Deborah to 1)"WHERE WERE YOU WHEN THEY SHOT MY DADDY???" Franklin D. Roosevelt spoke as a statesman, his voice calm and inviting. Deborah, a little embarrassed to need to explain this to the sitting President, explained that Theodore Roosevelt was not FDR's daddy. In fact, they were barely related at all, being fifth cousins. FDR apologized, noting that they *did* have the same last name, though. With some reluctance, Deborah [[admitted this to be true]].

Understandably, Deborah could not be public about her life-saving invention lest assassins exploit the predictable movements of the President and begin to hang out in bathrooms. Still, each President is filled with glee by the end of their FILGOT training and in addition to her yearly government stipend, Deborah enjoyed some lavish thank you gifts. This includes a prototype of the atomic bomb from Harry S. Truman and 400 kilos of cocaine from Dwight D. Eisenhower given "for safekeeping" with a wink. Pictures from the Oval Office during Truman's Presidency reveal a framed letter from Deborah where she simply writes, "This is the dumbest thing ever. Who could possibly want this? Literally will never use." J. Edgar Hoover was a little upset on [[November 22nd, 1963]].

You see, that night J. Edgar Hoover was going to go see *It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World* with a certain John F. Kennedy, but instead he was persuaded by members of his own team to watch the magnum opus of Abraham Zapruder, which he found needlessly violent, though the actors were able to put life into a shoddily written script. Truth be told, J. Edgar Hoover found the film almost believable, but he would still never again be taking movie recommendations from his uncultured underlings. After his eight-hour meeting with Zapruder (they watched the film countless times so he could give Zapruder proper feedback), he saw in the paper that John F. Kennedy was not only dead, but that he had been shot as well! J. Edgar Hoover exclaimed "Drat!" as he passed the buck to Deborah, whose teleportation training was obviously to blame. To be clear, this was a metaphorical buck, so even in 1963, she was able to [[receive it instantly]].

Richard Nixon was a [[rebel]].

Richard Nixon was a [[bad boy]].

Richard Nixon was not and will never be a [["crook."]]

But the man neglected his studies. He took one look at FILGOT and scoffed. Richard Nixon was above this behavior. Richard Nixon was known to buy packs of bullets just to disassemble them, just to show them who's boss. "No bang bang here," he'd sniffle. One time he even bought a cup of worms from the bait shop and kept the worms as pets instead of catching fish with them. Now that's transgressive. Richard Nixon wasn't a scared little child like the other Presidents. He brought his proverbial metal lunchbox to the proverbial schoolyard. Richard Nixon was a warrior and everyone knew it, truly a jackelope among bunny rabbits. [[Welcome to the Nixon administration, baby]].

{<script> if (x != -21){x = 21}; spin('Media/music/dick.mp3'); </script> }But today he stands in front of you in drag. That subtle blush is stunning and those contours really emphasize how gigantic his nose is, but what really gets you is the indigo lipstick. It's--honestly, it's enthralling. He's pulling it off in ways you only wish you could. [[Richard Nixon is the most effervescent being that you have ever encountered and your only wish is to imitate him|Richard Nixon is the most effervescent being which you have ever encountered and your only wish is to imitate him]].

Richard Nixon bats his fierce eyelashes, strikes a pose. God, he's gorgeous. But something's not right. You [[approach Richard Nixon]].

You look deeply at the man who boldly sent table tennis players where they had never been before. Those eyes are a sub-tropical paradise, teeming with sea turtles and clown fish. You know you could swim in them forever and Richard Nixon knows it, too. Richard Nixon swings his leg around you and pulls you in. You're in shock; the slip dress he's in fits so well with his figure that you didn't think such movement was possible. Fashionable design as well as practically versatile? You make a note to ask him where he shops. Richard Nixon re-applies lipstick, leans in, and whispers, "If you or a loved one has been diagnosed with Mesothelioma, you may be entitled to financial compensation." You [[swoon]].

Richard Nixon is all you want to know anymore. But that's such a tunnel-vision mindset that it can't be healthy, can it? [[Struggle away from Richard Nixon's grasp]]. [[Give in to the Dick]].

You mime your way out of Richard Nixon's arms, turn, and eat a croissant to calm your nerves. You can't surrender yourself to this man because-- You don't want to admit it to yourself. But you have to. You have to! No no no no no no. [[This is not the real Richard Nixon|not the real dick]].

{ <script> load('Media/blue.jpg'); load('Media/yellow.png'); load('Media/depress.png'); </script> }It's easy to abandon everything about your previous self when you're on just the right drugs. What's difficult isn't finding happiness, it's finding something meaningful because having meaning requires context. Your entire experience becomes sensory. A hamburger tastes good. A sunflower looks pleasing. But none of it lasts. Reset yourself enough and you won't know what it is to be yourself or what you really want out of this world. But all you know right now is that Richard Nixon forces your heart into double time, his smile like a ghostly sea of ancestors reassuring you when you spill your weird great-uncle's urn and disturb his eternal rest. You don't know what you're doing here or why, but you don't think about either. The best you can hope for is not realizing the illusion so the illusion never breaks. And you don't realize it. And the illusion is [[maintained]].

{<script> if (x != -11){x = 11}; spin('Media/music/patriot.mp3'); </script> }On August 9th, 1974, Richard Nixon [[resigned from office]].

{<script> if (x != -13){x = 13}; spin('Media/music/stomp.mp3'); </script> }You have no idea what the hell you're doing out here. [[Drink some orange juice to revitalize your energies]] [[Pick through the rubbish bin for a bite to eat]]

(if: $deborah is 1)[Those lips are covered in Maybelline lipstick and they're GOD DAMN PERFECT, but you know Richard Nixon would never wear makeup tested on animals. NEVER. Hell, further than that, you learned in the fourth grade that Richard Nixon is a strictly Anastasia Beverly Hills man. "A golden ratio for a golden god!" he would say to himself every morning as he contoured. His beauty routine was the whole second half of social studies! "I get it," you say, "everybody wants to flaunt that big nose, to swagger with that sweet Watergate voodoo magic. You do it well. Believe me. On a better day, I'd stick around anyway, maybe we could rustle up some affirmative action of our own. But today I'm only down with the genuine red hunter. So [[goodbye, fake Richard Nixon]]."](else:)[Those lips are covered in Maybelline lipstick, but you know Richard Nixon would never wear makeup tested on animals. NEVER. Hell, further than that, you learned in the fourth grade that Richard Nixon is a strictly Anastasia Beverly Hills man. "A golden ratio for a golden god!" he would say to himself every morning as he contoured. His beauty routine was the whole second half of social studies! "I get it," you say, "everybody wants to flaunt that big nose, to swagger with that sweet Watergate voodoo magic. You do it well. Believe me. On a better day, I'd stick around. Maybe we could get some ice cream and see a movie, but I've had enough of the red hunter for today. So [[goodbye, fake Richard Nixon]]. Maybe think about having a makeup routine that doesn't hurt animals."]

{<script> if (x != -21){x = 21}; spin('Media/music/dick.mp3'); </script> }Fake Richard Nixon nods, understanding. He's sad--no, he's miserable--but one can only move forward. Fake Richard Nixon boards a helicopter waiting nearby and ascends. The helicopter rises until it is consumed by the sun or otherwise out of your vision. You [[stop looking directly at the sun]].

{ <script> load('Media/Woods0.gif'); load('Media/Woods1.gif'); load('Media/indoor.png'); </script> }You find a large stash of orange juice. You try to imagine the place where it all came from, but all of your history teachers skipped over Florida out of fear. Furthermore, local TV has always censored any mention of Florida, even in movies. In fact, any public mentioning of anything about Florida to anyone in your city is punishable by death. Over thirty residents a year are executed in accordance with this law. You see, your mayor believes Florida is just a little too freewheelin'. You are aware of none of these facts, but you sure do love orange juice. How much do you chug? [[24]] [[zero|fucking zero]]

"YOU ARE NOT THE DICK I CRAVE!!!" you cry, tears pooling around your sick new Jordans. He is bewildered. He pleads with you, "MESOTHELIOMA IS A RARE CANCER LINKED TO ASBESTOS EXPOSURE!" But you've figured out his dirty lies, as attractive as this fake is. In fact, [[it's the attraction that did him in]].

{<script> if (x != -22){x = 22}; spin('Media/music/wrath.mp3'); </script> }Richard Nixon tightens his grip on you. You can sense he has been...kindled. The sea turtles and clown fish spill out onto the ground. As he gazes upon you, his eyes glow unholy fires. Screams emanate from somewhere, but they're actually unrelated and it's just a happy coincidence for the current tone of the situation. You feel as though Richard Nixon is cute when he is angry. He is, but unfortunately, this man is not cute when he is angry for [[he is not Richard Nixon]].

But it's clearly written in the FILGOT handbook that convertibles are the ultimate deprivation of teleportation power! Still, Deborah would see this as a black eye until her death in 1967. No one could have foreseen such an accident; a truck of pumpernickel smothered her, bread still spinning on the road for several minutes after the paramedics declared her goose cooked. In a show of respect, J. Edgar Hoover (who happened to be standing across the street) dipped her goose in brown mustard and ate it on pumpernickel with lettuce and tomato. Due to the nature of her service, she is largely forgotten by all except for the Presidents who use FILGOT. On January 20th, 1969, Richard Nixon was [[inaugurated into office]].

Richard Nixon laughs. The sun shines. The butterflies of these woods will all be dead within a week. "Exposure to asbestos in the Navy, shipyards, mills, heating, construction or the automotive industries may put you at risk," Richard Nixon moans. That silver-tongued devil. [[You skip off into the forest with him]], assuming he lives this way or something.

{<script> if (x != -22){x = 22}; spin('Media/music/wrath.mp3'); </script> }Richard Nixon has a heart attack and invites you to have one, too. [[Have a heart attack|You have a heart attack]]. [[Put the invitation somewhere safe and say you're thinking about RSVPing, but you know you'll never follow through]].

You die. [[Try again?|heart attack fake out]]

{<script> if (x != -23){x = 23}; spin('Media/music/star.mp3'); </script> }You throw the invitation onto a pile of papers on the desk and never think about it again. This room is always so messy. You say you like it this way because if it was organized it would have an emptiness to it. Mom keeps the house like that and it depressed you, even as a kid. Why do you have to hide everything away? Why does it have to be so sterile? Your room is always as messy as you can keep it because it means the story of it is still going, not already wrapped up. You like having the context of the Coke can you used a week ago or the messy bed you used last night. It feels good to anchor yourself in the past a little. It's a method of [[maintaining balance]].

Oh, and Richard Nixon doesn't die because he was faking and you're a loser who does whatever Richard Nixon says just so you can tag along. Richard Nixon knows your type and he bites his thumb at you. Let's [[back up a bit]].

The longer you've lived, the more you've understood that true balance is ephemeral. There are too many moving parts, too many that you can't control, don't control. Sometimes you sit in your bed late at night and you can't sleep and you look at the ceiling. It doesn't take too long to be uncomfortable and thinking about how your life is meaningless in relation to the life of the universe. You won't matter in the end, which is difficult to reconcile with the idea that you matter now. People will tell you they love you, even that they would miss you if you were gone, but you know they'd get by, maybe even better. They don't think about life like you do, so they won't get it. And you don't want them to. Living like this is painful. [[Clean your room]]. [[Watch anime]].

As your coronary artery betrays you, Richard Nixon makes funny faces and tells you bad jokes. Maybe they'd be funny, but they're just cluttered messes. "Where does the elephant put its valuable items when it goes driving in its Model T Ford that it bought a few years ago certified pre-owned from his local Ford dealer who had a big inflatable elephant out front?" Richard Nixon actually gives you time to say "Where?" but he figures out after several minutes that having a heart attack makes responding inconvenient, so he continues, knowing you can at least hear him. [["In the trunk!"|trunk]]

{<script> if (x != -21){x = 21}; spin('Media/music/dick.mp3'); </script> }You embrace Richard Nixon, not knowing what else there could be in this world that is of any worth. Adrenaline pulses through you. You are happy and you will always be happy with Richard Nixon. You hold his face in your hands, look him in the eyes and say [["I guess we better find out if you really are tricky, huh, Dick?"]] [["Faygo is a respectable beverage."]] [["Let's be crooks together."]]

Richard Nixon politely informs you that he has been living in the attic of a local McDonald's, scavenging half-used packets of ketchup to feed himself. Though he's plenty wealthy, he's been waiting until he acquired a mate to choose a house. He is so irresistible. What color will the house you live in be? [[Blue]] [[Yellow]]

However, you do believe you are mauled to death by the actual Richard Nixon, your infallible hero who certainly never said anything untoward on tape. As you greet Death, you are satisfied. Death, on the other hand, is a little bored. Not enough freak accidents these days. Too much use of those dreadful antiseptics. You think Death is going to take you somewhere, but apparently he is only there to watch. "There is no afterlife. I don't know how you even got here. Your body's over there, bud." Death says, awkwardly [[closing some sort of portal]].

You live a happy, fulfilled life with Richard Nixon, who is a compassionate lover, always there for you whenever you need him and anticipating that need sometimes even before you do. You have fifteen children all named Richard II and not a single one of them gets mesothelioma. Richard Nixon hides tape recorders in every nook and cranny of the house that he can find. No part of your life goes unrecorded. The foundation of the house is half cassette tapes, recordings of you brushing your teeth or you telling Richard II to stop fighting with Richard II or your breathing while you sleep. Richard Nixon will listen to these tapes in the garage, savoring them like one might savor stolen bonbons. He denies that he does this and you believe him. Sometimes, when it's real quiet, the cassette recorders record the sound of the other cassette recorders. They exchange their little hums and crackles, spinning tape that runs for miles, tape that will hold your unabridged legacy for lifetimes after you are gone. Oh, and he's QUITE tricky. (link: "Try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

You live a happy, fulfilled life with Richard Nixon, who is a compassionate lover, always there for you whenever you need him. You have three children, Rosemary, Rosencrantz, and Rosebud. All of them contract mesothelioma, and afterward Richard Nixon constantly reminds them, "Please don’t wait, call today for a free legal consultation and financial information packet." Eventually one of them calls today for a free legal consultation and financial information packet and you are gobsmacked to discover that it's not mesothelioma, they just have Vitamin D deficiencies because they spend too much time playing video games! In what must be the first occurrence in human history, WebMD was wrong! You and Richard Nixon go out and buy sun lamps so your precious children never have to worry about Vitamin D or go outside. Rosemary plays his Fortnite. Rosencrantz plays their Resident Evil, and Rosebud plays League of Legends, which is kind of a trash game, but you don't want to be overbearing. All of you get very tan (including that hunk, Richard Nixon!!!) and after a while, you never leave the house at all, but your likeness still manages to get out because almost all of your movements are livestreamed to Twitch. Oh, and he's QUITE tricky. (link: "Try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

(set: $bug to 1)YOU BUG OUT!!!! Well, you try to. Truth is, it's not time to bug out, so you put away the pliers, reorder the deck of cards by height, and proceed to [[definitely not bug out|No]].

(unless: $bug is 1)[No, it is not time to bug out. ]There's really not much to do in this room. [[Play hopscotch]]

{<script> if (x != -1){x = 1}; spin('Media/music/welcome.mp3'); </script> }Your dad used to play hopscotch all the time, so you know how it goes. "Just for Daddy," he'd say, his face smoothing over in your hazy memory. "Nothing like a game of hopscotch." You fall through the floor a little, but it's okay. If you could just move your feet, you'd be right out. [[Move your feet]] [[Ask Dad for help]]

{<script> if (x != -1){x = 1}; spin('Media/music/welcome.mp3'); </script> }You're right out. Weird things start happening with the hole in the floor, but they're none of your business now. Dad's on his third glass of hopscotch, so you don't bother him. [[Leave the memory]]

{<script> if (x != -27){x = 27}; spin('Media/music/khan.mp3'); </script> }"Dad!" you cry. The blank faced creature playing hopscotch stares at you as if you were some foreign object. His body is losing its features, melting into something else, something gray and vapid. This is the core of a being turned outward. His heart beats a melody of rage. He turns away, abandons you. There's a sticky pink liquid puddling around your feet. You try to move your feet now, but they're stuck. You can feel every muscle in your feet contract, but [[your feet muscles are insufficient|they're worthless]].

The spiders surround you, pleased to have trapped such a lovely beast. After a brief pep talk from who you can only assume is Bernie Sanders in spider form (editor's note: this is an incorrect assumption), the spiders ascend you. You close your eyes and you hope for superhuman abilities and you think about how everything good in the world is transient. (set: $spider to (random: 0,1)) (if: $spider is 0)[The spiders crawl all over you, chanting "Hemoglobin, hemoglobin, Molko holy Molko!" over and over. They take turns sipping on your sweet, sweet flesh. But not in a mean way, they just want some variety. They had sloppy joes three times last week! Anyway, they're tiny little things, so the blood loss isn't anything to worry about. Might take a while to heal up those bite wounds, but now you have *eight legs*! You think about giving them all names, but already you're confusing them with each other, so you put a hold on that. [[Pull yourself out of the muck]]](if: $spider is not 0)[They don't give you superhuman abilities. They praise the spider gods for this willing sacrifice as they feast upon you. Every bit of your flesh is consumed, fueling the spiders' inevitable world domination. The coroner notes that you are slightly shorter than what is stated on your driver's license. Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]]

You are being surrounded by a giant horde of spiders and as a result of extremely poor decision-making skills, you put all of your faith into a strategy that merely involves spitting at them. You have no special spitting skills or poisons built up in your saliva. But here you are, spitting on the ground, your life on the line. ur fokkin ded m8 [[or r u?|Let's see how this works out for you]]

You use your nifty new legs to pull your wimpy normal legs out of the muck. They're not actually wimpy, but they since they couldn't do this on their own, the new legs are teasing them, taunting them for no other reason than because they can. It's a leg eat leg world. You scream, "I WILL TURN THIS CAR AROUND," and things appear to [[return to a normal state]].

"Hey, puddle thing." "Yes?" "How do I get out of here?" "Do what I do." "What do you do?" The blank faced creature manages to look dejected despite lacking any facial features or any features not featured on the face. "[[Stop remembering]]."

Of course! This is all just a daydream. You remember to stop remembering and find yourself back in the windowless locked room somewhere inside the establishment where Doctor McRee works. Your face turns a ghostly white. You look down... ...Still eight legs! You breathe a sigh of relief and [[mash your head against the door]] [[scratch the chemical equation for Alka-Seltzer into the wall]] [[mash your head against the wall]] [[scratch the chemical equation for Alka-Seltzer into the door]]

(set: $mashdoor to 1)The door is as robust as the finest marinara sauce. Your head cracks against it and you see bi-planes flying in and out of your nostrils even though it's impossible to look at one's own nostrils without a mirror. (if: $mashwall is 1 and $alkawall is 1 and $alkadoor is 1)[ You've fully demonstrated the fortitude of your skull and your understanding for how Alka-Seltzer is made. Maybe it's time to stop mucking around and untie your shoes. [[Untie your shoes]]] (else:)[You hate bi-planes, so you (if: $mashwall is 0)[ [[mash your head against the wall]]] (if: $alkawall is 0)[ [[scratch the chemical equation for Alka-Seltzer into the wall]]] (if: $alkadoor is 0)[ [[scratch the chemical equation for Alka-Seltzer into the door]]]]

(set: $alkawall to 1)You start to scratch the chemical equation for Alka-Seltzer on the wall, but you are interrupted by a rather large parakeet. Again, you attempt to scratch the chemical equation for Alka-Seltzer on the wall, but the parakeet stops your work as soon as it starts. You look at the parakeet as if to say, "What am I doing that upsets you?" The parakeet looks back as if to say, "I am unable to communicate any thoughts through my eyes at this time. Please look at me again during office hours which are 9am to 4:30pm Monday through Friday." (if: $mashwall is 1 and $alkadoor is 1 and $mashdoor is 1)[ You've fully demonstrated the fortitude of your skull and your understanding for how Alka-Seltzer is made. Maybe it's time to stop mucking around and untie your shoes. [[Untie your shoes]]](else:)[ You don't know what day it is, so you (if: $alkadoor is 0)[ [[scratch the chemical equation for Alka-Seltzer into the door]]] (if: $mashdoor is 0)[ [[mash your head against the door]]]] (if: $mashwall is 0)[ [[mash your head against the wall]]]

(set: $mashwall to 1)That's a fine wall. Some say it was built by the Aztecs. Others say it was a construction crew about eleven years ago. Anyone can tell you that no one knows the truth for certain. But what you *do* know is that the wall is one tough cookie--oatmeal raisin to be precise. (if: $mashdoor is 1 and $alkawall is 1 and $alkadoor is 1)[ You've fully demonstrated the fortitude of your skull and your understanding for how Alka-Seltzer is made. Maybe it's time to stop mucking around and untie your shoes. [[Untie your shoes]]] (else:)[The oatmeal raisin flavor transcends all culinary experiences you've had in this lifetime, but filling up on sugar isn't helping you lose that belly fat, so you (if: $mashdoor is 0)[ [[mash your head against the door]]] (if: $alkawall is 0)[ [[scratch the chemical equation for Alka-Seltzer into the wall]]] (if: $alkadoor is 0)[ [[scratch the chemical equation for Alka-Seltzer into the door]]]]

(set: $alkadoor to 1)You spend several hours etching the chemical equation for Alka-Seltzer into the door with nothing but your fingernails and a pair of fuzzy dice. As you finish, you back away, expecting the door to come to life and give you some sort of message to summarize the true purpose of living. You would also consider an automated message suffice. You guess it doesn't have to come to life. There is no message of any kind, just a rather useless chemical equation for Alka-Seltzer. (if: $mashwall is 1 and $alkawall is 1 and $mashdoor is 1)[ You've fully demonstrated the fortitude of your skull and your understanding for how Alka-Seltzer is made. Maybe it's time to stop mucking around and untie your shoes. [[Untie your shoes]]] (else:)[You sit there for a minute, but silence disturbs you, so you (if: $alkawall is 0)[ [[scratch the chemical equation for Alka-Seltzer into the wall]]] (if: $mashdoor is 0)[ [[mash your head against the door]]]] (if: $mashwall is 0)[ [[mash your head against the wall]]]

The blank faced creature has returned to his hopscotch. He sips deep. He snatches a magazine from the floor. You only see the cover, more blank faced creatures, stuck in elaborate poses. They must be cold, you think. You keep trying to move your feet, but they won't even budge. Whatever this pink stuff is has you stuck pretty tight. Cockroaches flit in and out of holes in the walls. Spiders walk in concentric circles until they find your feet. There are a lot more bugs in this memory than you remember there being. [[Trust that the spiders will give you superhuman abilities]] [[Trust that your spit will deter the spiders who may or may not be able to give you superhuman abilities]] [[BUG OUT]]

You groan, displeased with how much effort this is going to take you. "This is going to take a lot of effort!" You say out loud for some reason. Then you realize that six of your feet actually don't have shoes and that the only shoes you'll be untying are your sick new Jordans. Aww yeah. [[Let em breathe a little]].

Now might seem like the exact appropriate time to bug out, but that's a rather large commitment, isn't it? While bugging out has been proven to help ten out of eleven patients in a controlled clinical study, it shouldn't be done lightly. You should talk to your doctor and find out if bugging out is right for you. However, there's sort of a time crunch, so flip a coin or something. [[Heads]] [[Tails]]

Save bugging out for another time. Good thinking. Back to the real options. [[Trust that the spiders will give you superhuman abilities]] [[Trust that your spit will deter the spiders who may or may not be able to give you superhuman abilities]]

You BUG OUT! Before the spiders can make it to your body, you beat them to the punch by fully transforming yourself into a millipede. This forces them to lose their interest and they go watch *Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets* again instead of harassing you any longer. You have always dreamed of being a millipede. You've wanted to be the most beautiful millipede that ever was, the face that launched a thousand legs. The blank faced creature is unimpressed with this development and he decides to [[take action]].

The only thing that ever got him motivated was killing something that was unlike him. Despite your years trying to impress him, you find yourself fitting quite nicely into that fatal category. You scream, but you're a millipede, so you don't accomplish anything with it. You keep screaming. It turns out it's difficult to communicate who you really are when you transform into a bug. It turns out that having a thousand legs doesn't mean you move so much faster. It turns out you can withstand the slap of a nudie magazine, but not the stomp of a heel. Your splattered remains stay there for days before someone else cleans them up. He slumps back in his chair and drinks more scotch and complains to a television that isn't even on. He's exhausted, but he doesn't go to bed. This is his life and he gets through it. But you don't. (link: "Try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

All the dirty clothes go in the hamper. All the papers get organized, put in the binders where they belong. All the dishes get taken back to the kitchen. You even make the bed, which dumb because it's right about time to sleep. You don't feel better, you think, but you've accomplished something. You gave your time a purpose. Maybe you do feel better. [[Sleep]]

You move some dirty clothes off the chair and bring up Crunchyroll. Lately you've been watching animes where they fight with crazy weapons and then get into bigger fights with crazier weapons. This sub-section of anime cycles between indestructible characters taking missiles to the face like it's nothing and making something like a volleyball match look like it's World War Three. The screen is the only light in the room. You eat chips and watch wordlessly. You tell yourself you enjoy this, but you do this almost every night and you don't seem to be getting anywhere. But the ten-year-old kid is able to beat a militia of genetically enhanced soldiers with nothing but his lucky set of marbles and a few words of advice from his grandfather. He's getting somewhere. He has goals and you savor that ambition vicariously. [[Sleep]]

For once, you get your eight hours. [[Wake up]]

It's Saturday. Nothing is planned for Saturday. You feel as though you're supposed to be doing something with your time. [[Go to the park]] [[Go to the grocery store]]

You walk around for a while until you sit at a bench. It's cold today. You've seen these trees before. The people passing by on bicycles are smart and happy and healthy. You feel as though you're supposed to be doing something with your time. [[Go home]] [[Go to a bar]]

You're glad that you're getting out, but you don't actually know what you need from the grocery store. You shove some yogurt in the basket and walk around for a while. There is nothing like the calm of a grocery store. As you're soaking the calm in, you think about how that calm is carefully calculated so you'll buy more. You think about how the milk is all the way in the back, even though it's a basic necessity, forcing you to walk past all the impulse buys that are placed evenly around the store. Yogurt is still the only thing in your basket. You feel as though you're supposed to be doing something with your time. [[Go to a bar]] [[Go home]]

You wander through the house, looking for something to do. Mom's out late tonight, so you're on your own for dinner. After hours of anime, you make yourself a frozen pizza. You really do like these frozen pizzas. It's quiet at home tonight and it gets you thinking about whether or not this moment will really matter to you or anyone else. You don't think it matters, but the food's good while it lasts. You get to bed before Mom gets home. You feel as though you're supposed to be doing something with your time. But maybe it doesn't matter what you do with your time. You don't know exactly why you should keep going, but you also don't know why you would stop. So you keep going. You sleep, you wake up, you wander. After a certain point, something good has to come of your wandering. At least, you hope so. (link: "Try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

It's 1:30 in the afternoon. [[Go home]] [[Go to a bar|bar]]

You order a beer. It's seven dollars, which makes you feel like a fool, but this is where people are supposed to hang out. Nobody's really here now, though. An older man at the end of the bar keeps taking his hat off and putting it back on again. You've never met anyone at a bar before, so you don't know why you think it will happen now. The man at the end of the bar waves at you. You wave back. He turns back to his drink, takes his hat off, and then puts it back on again. You feel as though you're supposed to be doing something with your time. [[Go home]] [[Call that therapist Mom recommended]]

She doesn't answer, but she calls you right back and you introduce yourself. "Oh, that's right! Your mother told me all about you." Given the context, you're not sure how to take that. "Well, I'm on my way out of the office right now, but I'd be happy to set up an appointment if that's what you want to do." You didn't think this far ahead. You don't know why you called or why Mom felt it necessary to recommend you a therapist. [[Hang up]] [[Lie and say you'll have to call her back]] [["How's this Thursday, some time after one?"]]

You hang up. She calls again a minute later, but you [[ignore it]].

"I'll have to call you back after I look over my schedule." "Alright, that sounds fine, dear. I'll be back in the office at 9am on Monday. Have a good evening!" You're never calling her back. You're never calling her back. You don't know why you called in the first place, this is weird. [[Walk down the street|ignore it]]

"Let me see... How does 2:30 sound?" "Good. 2:30 works." "Alright, see you then. Bye-bye!" So that's that. [[Thursday]].

You don't want people looking at you as you walk down the street. Why would you want to talk intimately with some stranger? Why would they want to listen? There's gotta be something else going on with her. For the first time all day, you're experiencing emotion, but it's so uncomfortable, so unnerving. You do know why you called. You called because you want to feel okay, but that isn't how you're going to do it. You don't care what she thinks and you don't want anybody "helping" you think. A skateboarder rolling by stops and asks, "Hey, dude, are you okay?" [["I'm FINE."]] [["Yeah, I'm just... Yeah. Don't worry about it."|"I'm FINE."]]

"Alright, yo. Guess just have a good one, then." He skates off. He is the second person you've talked to today, the first being the bartender. You don't know what's been going on these days, but something's gotta give eventually. It seems like it's all been getting worse. All this existential shit used to be at the back of your mind. You used to know how to talk to people without scaring them or making them worried. [[Go home|home 2]]

You're stressed out, but you try not to think about it while you walk. But that doesn't work. So you think about it. You made a phone call to a therapist your mom recommended. There's some stuff to unpack there, but you're not in danger. You never wanted to be someone who needs that kind of help. You don't know what you did to turn into that person. Maybe you didn't have a choice and it was destined to happen. That's bullshit, but it's not your fault. Still, you feel as though you're supposed to be doing something with your time. Something that isn't fighting your own head to have some sort of positive outlook, some will to live on. But at least you're fighting. Against the pessimism and the anger and the hopelessness. You're fighting because you care and because there's something to fight for. There's hope for you yet. [[Wipe tears with sleeve]]

You wipe the tears streaming down your face, pleasantly surprised that no one's on this street right now. As the cold wind blows, you feel the streaks that are left behind. There was a time that you felt like you were doing all of this for something and maybe you can get that back. Maybe you just need to try. You don't know. But it's worth trying. Even if there is so much of your life that you can't control, there are some parts you can. Maybe you should call that therapist on Monday. She seems like an old tart, but she wants to help. For tomorrow, maybe you'll call up Richard. You haven't talked to him in months, which is tricky, but he was always a good listener and you could use a friend. [[And for tonight!]]

Tonight, you're ordering pizza from that local joint and you're watching anime and you're getting your room nice and messy. Maybe self-care is just letting yourself enjoy things. There's only this one strip of time where you exist, so you might as well try to get some pleasure out of it and fight whatever stops you. Sometimes you need a healthy self before you can take on the world. Still, right now you feel like whatever happens, you can take it on. If anything, that feeling is gold. Seriously! You might have utterly failed to transfigure any everyday objects into anything but metaphorical gold, but self-care and whatnot is a decent consolation prize. Just not gonna get you rich. (link: "Try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

You've only been in a psychiatrist's office once before. Then you were just a kid, eleven years old. Your mom wanted to work some things out with you. You didn't think you had anything that needed working out. Not at this level, anyway. You're not sure if you need it now. The wallpaper has sunflowers and clouds on it. The design looks pretty old and you have a weird nostalgia for it, even though you've never seen it before. It's 2:30. You [[go into her office]].

Her office has a lot of trinkets that look like they're supposed to calm people, but it seems like the target age is triple yours. Frilly lace, some glass-blown plates, even a couple porcelain dolls that you could sell to the annual haunted house that pops up behind the Methodist church. It's called "Devil's Alley" or "Satan's Lair" or something. You appreciate that whoever leases out the property doesn't have any issue with the two businesses being near each other. This is the part where [[she tells you there's some pill to cheer you up, it just costs you half a personality]].

The spiders drink up your spit because they understand the importance of proper hydration before slaughtering a giant. They do their stretches and get into the mindset. "Red leather yellow leather," one screams. "Unique New York," another howls. These are their war cries. After two hours of warm-up, the spiders are finally ready to begin eating you alive. The cockroaches watch from their tailgate parties and you gaze upon them in awe, wondering how they found so many tiny grills. A cockroach flips a tiny patty on the tiny grill and sits down next to his sizzling grub. She waves a tiny foam finger. By the time the spiders actually attack, you're kind of ready for this to be over with already. [[They ascend your legs]]

The spiders climb up your legs and all over you. You brace yourself for spider teeth and the cockroaches start doing improv. You are cloaked in spiders; there's no way out now. But they're not biting. They're just crawling. You listen to them and they are all talking about how much they're biting you and feasting upon your flesh and it's quite terrifying to hear someone with such little respect for you, but it's all talk. The spitting worked. You had no clue what the hell you were doing with the spitting, but when your friends and family ask about the spider incident inside the drugged-up memory/hallucination thing that will get you several therapist recommendations, you'll tell them [[you had a plan all along]].

{ <script> load('Media/sick.gif'); load('Media/jordan.gif'); load('Media/piss.png'); </script> }Your feet are still stuck, though. So there's that. [[Ask the blank faced creature to amputate your legs|Ask the blank-faced creature to amputate your legs]] [[Attempt to amputate your legs by yourself]] [[Wait for the spiders to get hungry again]] [[Ask for the remote so you can at least catch up on Matlock while you wait to die]] [[Take off your shoes]]

See, spiders are very self-conscious about their weight. Not many people know this. Despite the major health risks, they're one of the few animals on the planet that will starve themselves in order to keep weight off. This explains why all the spiders you've ever seen could fit into your tiny little black number even on the days you can't. The spit didn't serve as a deterrent until it hit the spiders as water weight. It was then that they looked fat as hell and refused to eat anymore. Preying on body image is a low-blow, but maybe your only way out of a scary situation. Despite your poor decision-making, you leverage the body-shaming of thousands of spiders and [[make it out alive]]. Though, it's yet to be seen how you live with yourself.

He grunts, annoyed that you'd interrupt his hopscotch, but he's always up for a little bit of violence. He grabs a puntilla knife and a lighter, which you recognize as tools capable of safely and efficiently completing the task you have requested. The blank faced creature gets a glimmer in an eye that you aren't sure even exists. There is definitely a sense of joy, though, as he rams the knife into your left leg. You're not sure that was the proper placement, but the pain keeps you from thinking of anything else. He swings and swings, laughing like a jackal. he separates your lower left leg from your body, waves a lighter under the rain of blood from your knee as if it will cauterize the wound. The cockroaches have their tailgates out again, but they're not cheering. They cover the children's eyes and put away their foam fingers. Those sweet little grills still make an appearance, though. The knife slams into your right leg and the second phase of this begins. In his blood lust, the blank faced creature has lost all precision. He's merely hacking away at you, guided only by a need to disrupt the flesh. But you don't notice. You pass out as soon as the right leg begins. The blood loss is too much. Your final thought is that perhaps this task requires the know-how of a professional. You die in a pool of your own blood. (link: "Try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

You don't have any sharp objects on you. Rats! [[Ask the blank-faced creature to amputate your legs]] [[Ask for the remote so you can at least catch up on Matlock while you wait to die]] [[Wait for the spiders to get hungry again]] [[Take off your shoes]]

You play marbles with the blank faced creature until the spiders have shed their water weight. You think you win at marbles, but neither one of you is very clear on the rules. The spiders forego their warm-up and get straight to feasting on you. You're grateful that they're so direct, that this won't last any longer than it has to. You submit to the thousands of spider fangs which pierce your skin. Your flesh feeds them, bit by bit. You die after the first feeding, but the spiders are able to keep eating you for almost a week. It would be longer, but they don't have any refrigerator rights around here. Anyway, they lay eggs in your body and your bones become the breeding ground of several generations of new spiders. The weird pink liquid [[never goes away]].

You catch up on Matlock while you starve to death. You make it through 178 of the 194 episodes. If it wasn't for the commercials, you would have fully satisfied your final wish. Instead, you were tortured by campaigns for a local mattress store and the same damn Sonic ad every commercial break. If you ever need a personal injury lawyer, you're calling Hammer and Fitzgerald. Not because they're the best, but because their god damn number is ingrained in your skull. [["Is somebody responsible for *your* injury? Get em nailed by Hammer and Fitzgerald!"|lawyer]]

You never wanted it to come to this, didn't even think of having to do this. You wiggle your feet out of your sick new Jordans and step onto the unbroken floor. The cockroaches cheer. Several with face paint sing a traditional song of your victory and several others bark like dogs. You are freed? But at [[what cost]]?

$203.30 with tax (plus emotional damages). You meditate on this and [[do not feel any better]].

Rage grows within you. Those were your sick new Jordans and now they're stuck in a mysterious goo, probably doomed to become a landmark for the spiders. This is not okay. [[Your power grows]]

The cockroaches pack up their things and run back home, back in the wall, back wherever. They don't feel safe out here. The blank faced creature has melted down to nothing but a puddle. He sees and feels nothing. Even if he did, it's unlikely he would want to protect himself. You are floating four feet off the ground. As you concentrate on all the fun times you could have had with your sick new Jordans, power builds inside you. Wind rushes through the room. Nudie magazines flitter and flutter every which way. You [[achieve maximum levels of optimized emotional output]].

One time when you were young, there was a hurricane somewhere in Florida. You don't remember which one, but Mom had the television on the news while she was making dinner. The hurricane blew through cities, wind and rain alternately ripping apart and devouring buildings and bridges and automobiles. At one point, they show a city street overcome by water. It seems like the camera is set up in a random place, but water rushes in as soon as they switch over to it. A broadcaster notes the rapid rise of water and says that a levee nearby has broken. Water races forward angry and restless like the dogs of Hell must be. A Volkswagen parked on the side spins out and then staggers, resists as long as it can before submitting to the wave. It flies as if slung into a stone pillar outside a local bank. The hood crumples, the windshield shatters, and the back wheels pop up into the air before slamming down again. The pillar cracks, but does not fall. The commentators [[pause and consider the violence]].

{<script> if (x != -27){x = 27}; spin('Media/music/khan.mp3'); </script> }You think now of that water, of its eruption, of that rushing, untamed power which is so much like the energy you hold, the energy which you must release. After all these years, you are ready to accept the water as a neutral force, guided by circumstance instead of malice. [[$203.30]]

{<script> if (x != -86){x = 86}; silence(); </script> }A hot yellow light bursts from you, blinding you as it radiates through the room! The light rushes like the water rushing through the street. [[$203.30|gold light]]

{<script> if (x != -86){x = 86}; silence(); </script> }Your distress overwhelms you and leaks into the physical world. Your body contorts this way and that, succumbing to the power of the energy being released. It changes everything it touches, even the everyday objects...it transforms them...transfigures them. [[$203.30|gold light 2]]

{<script> if (x != -28){x = 28}; spin('Media/music/piss.mp3'); </script> }You fall back to the floor, the purge complete. The loss of your sick new Jordans has impacted your world in a major way. You never expected your sick new Jordans to be the key to achieving maximum levels of optimized emotional output. As the bright yellow haze settles, you begin to be able to see again. Everything is yellow...golden, even. It's shiny, too... The blank faced creature and the tailgating cockroaches have vanished. You realize that you're locked in a room somewhere in the building Doctor McRee works in. But one thing is very different about every square inch of the room. Something golden, something unexpected... Your eyes adjust to the light and you finally realize what you've done thanks to the powers unlocked by the loss of your sick new Jordans. You look around the room and everything [[has been transfigured to gold]]!!!

You don't believe it. The strange journey Doctor McRee started you on in order to learn how to transfigure everyday objects to gold has actually worked! You run around the room, elated at your newfound wealth and your newfound power. You leap onto the wall and run your hands over the gold and smush your face into it. You [[sniff deep]], hungry for the potent smells of this treasure you have created.

{<script> if (x != -1){x = 1}; spin('Media/music/welcome.mp3'); </script> }(text-style: "mark")["**Greetings, bold traveler!** Welcome to *Everyday Objects to Gold*!] "My name is Doctor Francis McRee. I specialize in transfiguring everyday objects to gold. You must be here to learn how to use such alchemy for yourself. "There's a chance you may be thinking, 'But Doctor, I'm only here for a routine physical!' Well, that's simply not the case. You are here to create gold. That is all we do here. No nonsense allowed! "To begin, it's best that we move forward with the method you feel most comfortable using. Take your pick." [[Apply to the Friedrich Finck Technical School of Alchemy]] [[Take a lot of drugs]] [[Get a better hobby]] { (save-game: "GameStart") } { (save-game: "Save") }

"I want to know what's going on with you, from you. I'm not here to prescribe pills if you don't need them or to change who you are. If a pill is what works, great! But what's important is that we collaborate on making a plan to help you feel better. So what's brought you here today?" Is it a trick? You're not sure. You know she knows she'll get money off whatever she prescribes, more than what you're paying to talk to her. [[Open up]] [[Leave]]

You tell her everything you can and it's harder to put in a neat story than you thought it would be. You don't know when things changed, when you started feeling apathetic or sad or angry or all of them at once. There had to be some catalyst... [[The porcelain dolls begin to writhe]].

You think about leaving, but you've already paid for the hour and you're already here. Might as well give it a shot. [[Talk to her|Open up]] [[No, might as well not. Screw this]].

Just kidding. The dolls haven't awakened quite yet. You actually have a great session. Before you know it, the hour's up. You've unpacked a lot. She has a lot of experience with other patients and with life in general. It feels good talking about it, recognizing it. If you can name your enemy, you can fight it. She tells you that you're just beginning a journey of self-care and that it will take a while to figure what self-care is appropriate for you. The main thing, she says, is that you keep trying and be as optimistic as you can about it. The only way you'll lose is if you give up. You head out, pass her next appointment in the waiting room. You're kind of excited to come back next week. It feels good to consciously try to better yourself. For now, you're gonna get home and watch some anime. Maybe pick up a burrito or something on the way. You're certainly not picking up any gold, though. Whoops! Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

You take off your shoes, sit back, and relax. Your feet breathe in the fresh air in heaving gasps. The door's locked, but there's no sense in panicking. Doctor McRee has to show up at some point. In the meantime, you try to remember the difference between stalactites and stalagmites. [[Stalagmites are on the ceiling of a cave, while stalactites rise from the floor]]. [[Stalactites are on the ceiling of a cave, while stalagmites rise from the floor]].

{ <script> load('Media/fire.gif'); load('Media/gold.gif'); </script> }{<script> if (x != -16){x = 16}; spin('Media/music/train.mp3'); </script> }You walk into the woods, gather branches, and set up the fire in a patch of dirt. You build a little circle with rocks, too, though you don't think you'll have to worry. It's actually a nice spot; it's quiet and all around you, the sycamores sway in the breeze. This must be a lovely place at night. [[Wait until night]]

{ <script> load('Media/ritz.gif'); load('Media/fireday.png'); load('Media/firenight.png'); load('Media/loser.gif'); </script> }You crack open the lid to a gooooooooooood looking rubbish bin. Mmmmmmmmmm, that smells...pungent. Unfortunately, it looks like Doctor McRee has tossed all his biohazard waste in here, so you'll have to pick around the needles to find a snack. Really not much in the way of food here. More than a few empty cartons of orange juice in here. There's a bag from Icarus Wings and Grill, but it looks like they burned the whole order. (if: $deborah is 1)[You already miss fake Richard Nixon, but you know it's better this way. You'll just have to keep distracted. ]Hey! It's bag of Doritos! Oh, wait, those aren't Doritos. ): [[Dig deeper]]

Down near the bottom, it's pretty wet, but you're pretty hungry. You can't see too well, but you think you just touched a severed hand. Lol. You wrap your hands around another bag...ugghhh, empty. It's a bag from that bangin' burrito bungalow, too. Before you reach back in, you take out about a dozen orange juice cartridges so you can (vitamin) see better. You reach back in, past the used needles and the severed hand. Ahhh! There's something curious at the very bottom of a very crowded bin of rubbish. [[What's this]]?

(if: $Deborah is 1)[It's a vinyl copy of *Parachutes* by Coldplay! Somehow it got stuck in the garbage where it blended in with everything else, perfectly camouflaged. You take the record out of the sleeve and it looks brand new--oh wait, no, it looks like someone managed to play about five seconds of it before ripping the needle off or instinctually taking extreme actions to disable the record player. This [[reminds you]].](else:)[It's a half-eaten box of Ritz Bits! [[Munch on, cadet!]]]

In one of the darkest moments of your entire life, someone masquerading as a friend had played you a song from this album from their mp3 player. You never understood why he hadn't just burned your crops and killed your prize cow. You never understood why he hadn't just hacked off your limbs and thrown you in the river. You never understood why he hadn't just implicated you in seventeen counts of wire fraud. But that's [[not what he did]].

{<script> if (x != -13){x = 13}; spin('Media/music/stomp.mp3'); </script> }He did none of those alternatives for his heart had the darkest evils at its core. Were the malice within him a physical creature, it would stand as tall as the skyscrapers. Its claws would level whole towns. Its bellow would be that of Chris Martin singing at a normal volume, raining hellfire on the innocent. Whatever purity he once had, it had been corrupted. Destruction became his master. Though you made sure to never to see him again, you were changed forever. You had witnessed the most vicious, vile side of humanity. How could such willful desolation inhabit the same world as you? You heard things that no one should have to hear. With that cloud hanging over you, it is impossible to be happy again. You do what you must. [[Burn the record]] [[Don't burn the record|choice of failure]]

Whoa, this is a lovely place at night. Totally tubular! You light some corn chips and sprinkle them into the pile of branches which catch fire quickly. All that's left is to [[add the copy of *Parachutes*|burn the unholy relic]]

For the next few hours, you look at the stars, try to remember which constellations your Dad taught you, try to discern which ones are real and which ones he was just making up. The drugs are wearing off. Clarity creeps back in. Whether or not you impress Doctor McRee, you've just done something really positive. You burned a copy of *Parachutes* by Coldplay, which never had a right to exist in the world to begin with. It's time to get home, though. You sit up and stretch. Better put out the fire before you go. [[Run back to the facility and grab an orange juice cartridge]]

The wood is all shiny. Well, something on the wood is all shiny. You can't quite make it out, but it looks like there's something solid here, like a metal with 79 electrons. This is definitely not something that was on the branches before. Wait, the vinyl is all gone. Maybe this stuff is the vinyl? But plastic shouldn't act like this. Burning plastic will release harmful pollutants and toxic fumes that severely damage the health of the environment as well as those nearby, but the melted vinyl is still black, right? You rub your eyes and still see the same thing. You're pretty sure of this. It looks like-- [[A flashlight through the trees]]

You fill the cartridge in the nearby creek. You put your hand in the water, feel the tug of the current for a moment. It's been a good day today. Back to the fire. Before you splash it onto the fire, you [[notice something weird]].

"Thanks for the three fucking hours of stargazing. Glad you're finally noticing this, though." It's Doctor McRee in a ghillie suit. He's been watching you for a long time. "This is your doing. You made the right choice." He [[motions towards the fire|pause]].

Dr. McRee sits down by the gold-enriched campfire and clears his throat. "You ever taken a math where they teach you that multiplication thing?" [[Yes|positive]] [[No|negative]]

"Great! This will be easy, then. Just to make sure, you've heard of negative numbers, too?" You nod. He jumps in the air and pumps his fist at the sky. "It's always great to be around another mathematics fiend!!!" He goes to shake your hand, but remembers he was explaining something. "Oh! Yes! In multiplication, there is an advanced concept where two negative numbers are multiplied together... You ever done this?" "Yes, like negative three times negative two is six." "Precisely! So what's happening there is you take two *negative* things, mash them together, and they become a *positive*! When transfiguring everyday objects to gold, we follow the same properties. See, *Parachutes* by Coldplay is inhumanity embodied. If you 'multiply' that with fire, which destroys everything it touches, you multiply two negative things together." You smile. Of course! The answer had been hiding in the advanced multiplication course you took as a graduate student! [[You know exactly what he means]]!

"Hmmm. Okay, well, you'll have to take it on my word, then. The basic gist is that numbers combine to become bigger numbers, blah blah blah. Math stuff. The important part of multiplication for us is that the combination of two negative numbers results in a positive number." You're unsure what the phrase "negative numbers" could mean. You've never had less than zero apples and where you're from, numbers are only used to count apples. But you politely humor the doctor's radical notions, hoping he has a point. He rambles on for another minute. Something about a "chemical reaction." Something about "Coldplay is evil's truest form," and that "two negatives make a positive" ideology again. Nothing about apples, though, so it's hard to believe this guy has any standing in his field. You are unable to parse Doctor McRee's unnecessarily complicated theories, but you [[try your best to act like you get it|You know exactly what he means]].

"Wow!" you say, opening your sentence with an appropriate interjection, "So like if I combined sour milk and a parking ticket, I would create gold?" "No. Conceptually, I understand where you might think that. However, the negative things that you force into reaction must meet a level of *negation purity*. By that I mean, they basically either need to be among the most wretched items this world has ever known or they need to be fire, which is destruction incarnate." "Alright. So...what are the most wretched items this world has ever known?" "Coldplay albums. Any of them." The lightbulb goes off in your head and you understand what you must do. Burn every Coldplay album you possibly can. (text-style: "mark")[**Congratulations, bold traveler. You have won.**] If you would like to explore other paths, you are free to (link: "play again")[(load-game: "GameStart")].

{<script> if (x != -15){x = 15}; spin('Media/music/hell.mp3'); </script> }(text-rotate:1)[Darkness has consumed you, forced you from the path of righteousness. Your blood turns cold. Your body is changing. You feel a need to take part in an event of ritual masochism known to others like you as a (text-style: "shudder")["Coldplay concert."] Your eyes turn blood red. You become completely hairless. The turmoil inside you manifests in your outer appearance; birkenstocks appear at your feet, grown from your hideous flesh. "VIVA LA VIDA!" you howl, waking Joe Satriani. *This* is the adventure of a lifetime. [[Seek out a record player so that you may listen to your new gods]]]

(text-rotate:-1)[With the epitome of unspeakable evils in your hand, you head towards the door back inside. There, you will force someone to sacrifice their record player. As you break into a gallop, you are hit with an arrow in the back. [[Keep going]]]

(text-rotate:4)[For a moment, the wind is knocked out of you. Overcoming the surprise is the hardest part. You run, focused on getting this Coldplay album to a record player so that you may summon sounds forged for the annihilation of all things. *Thwooooomp!*(text-rotate:-7)[ [[Another arrow in the back]]]]

(text-rotate:-7)[This arrow pierces just below your left shoulder. You're spitting blood, but you continue, offering a plea to Chris Martin to fix you as you round a corner of the building.] (text-rotate:-3)[ Things feel funny...they're going in and out of balance...] (text-rotate:5)[gravity isn't acting right. You can feel your heart beating. You hear its foul sound.] (text-rotate:45)[ [[Just a couple more steps]]]

(text-rotate:-15)[The next arrow catches the back of your right calf and you tumble] (text-rotate:30)[ to the ground.] (text-rotate:11)[Doctor McRee stands over you, tossing aside the crossbow to grab something off his belt. You writhe, attempt to get back on your feet, but he splashes you with holy water. Your flesh sizzles as it's burned away. (text-rotate:4)["I'm sorry I couldn't save you," he says, holding a bowie knife above your chest. "You got so close, but it turns out you're an absolute monster."] ](text-rotate:7)["Have you even heard Yellow?" you growl, spitting blood through your yellowed fangs.] (text-rotate:-2)[His [[eyes widen]].]

{<script> if (x != -13){x = 13}; spin('Media/music/stomp.mp3'); </script> }You don't know if you really want to pass up this opportunity. You flip the record over and check out the design on the back. Now's as good of a time as any to burn it. What's to lose? [[Actually, you kinda like the album|Don't burn the record]] [[Burn the record]]

You polish off the last of the twenty-four jugs of orange juice, each a gallon of 98% juice. If your skin and internal organs were to switch places, you would be able to see the vitamin C corrode you, turn that healthy organ color a neon orange. You don't think about this and you are glad that this never crosses your mind. [[Chuck those empty jugs in the rubbish bin]]

{<script> if (x != -13){x = 13}; spin('Media/music/stomp.mp3'); </script> }Right, you actually hate orange juice with the power-packed taste of the sun. You only drink it when instructed to by a very persuasive doctor. You were once accidentally given orange juice by a waiter at a Waffle House; it is said that anyone who orders orange juice at that Waffle House can still hear his screams. [[Listen to his screams]]

{ (print: "<script>$('html').removeClass(\)</script>") (if: (passage:)'s tags's length > 0)[ (print: "<script>$('html').addClass('" + (passage:)'s tags.join(' ') + "'\)</script>") ] }

(text-rotate:-8)["Of course! Of course I have heard the whiny rubbish which masquerades as something deep! I have heard the pathetic, self-obsessed soft rock which seeks to seduce this world into darkness! And for the sake of humanity, I must destroy it and its hellish followers."] (text-rotate:-15)[He screams in anguish as he stabs you repeatedly in the chest, his thrusts coming at the speed of sound.] (text-rotate:-17)[The last image you see is Doctor McRee breaking *Parachutes* in half and setting fire to it himself. He took no pleasure in killing you, but he's clearly getting a kick out of this.] (text-rotate:-6)[You go to meet Death and all his friends.] (text-rotate:5)[Not only are you a casualty in the war of good and evil, but you fought for the wrong side. Would you like to [[try again?]] ]

{<script> if (x != -13){x = 13}; spin('Media/music/stomp.mp3'); </script> }Nothing in this world tastes quite like stale Ritz Bits that have been fermenting at the bottom of a rubbish bin filled with syringes and blood. You groan with pleasure, unable to tell if these are the peanut butter ones or the cheese ones. [[Open a restaurant]]

{<script> if (x != -19){x = 19}; spin('Media/music/waffle.mp3'); </script> }Ahhhhhhhhhhh, that's nice. Hearing his anguished cries calms you even now. You're forever thankful that you thought to get a recording. You put away your mp3 player and get serious. You can feel the drugs are wearing off, so you need to get your task done quickly. Unfortunately, you don't remember what you're trying to do. Something to do with granular synthesis? Blade geometry? Cross-deckle misregistration? No matter. Doctor McRee's gotta have the answer around here somewhere. [[Go back inside]]

Like a sailor returning home, you chuck those empty jugs in the rubbish bin. You run into the woods behind Doctor McRee's facility and find a spot where the sun shines and the birds chirp the *Frasier* theme exclusively. [[You do what you do best]].

{<script> if (x != -14){x = 14}; spin('Media/music/ritz.mp3'); </script> }You design a restaurant centered around stale Ritz Bits that have been fermenting at the bottom of a rubbish bin filled with syringes and blood. It's the only thing you'll serve there. And you'll serve it in a trough. And you'll blast Prurient. And everyone with teeth will show them to you. [[Opening night]]

You slop your creation into the troughs. There aren't even any chairs in here. The only design element is the massive set of Nicholas Lockyer collages on the walls. The customers scream. The customers writhe. The customers are overly concerned with whether or not Mercury is in retrograde. The customers are astounded. They don't even care that much that you don't have a license to serve food. [[The police show up]]

The police LOVE IT. [[The health inspector shows up]]

They actually CAME TO THE WRONG ADDRESS, so MAYBE THEY'LL SEE YOU ANOTHER TIME. [[The mayor shows up]]

He HATES it. He tells you that nine out of ten mayors agree, this is a place worthy of HATE. [[You ask him for his badge]]

He crumples into a flesh cube the size of an industrial light bulb. He's not the real mayor!!! [[The crowd cheers]]

Things get raucous and the police run up to you and douse you in flavored sports drink™. You politely ask them to leave. The sign on the door clearly states that no outside food or drink is permitted. The police get back to harassing the public. [[Harass your customers]]

You try to harass your customers, but you're just too good. They love you. They love the balloon animals you make. They love the macaroni art you staple to the hoods of their cars. They love the low, breathy sound you make when you light their paper currencies on fire. The ones with teeth show them to you. [[This is everything you have ever wanted and nothing could possibly happen that would dampen the mood]]

One night, someone breaks in and steals the secret ingredient, but the secret ingredient is love, so you just make more. The IRS comes to check your books and they're very impressed by the breadth of your communist literature. An influential food critic tells the world that your food is rubbish and the muck munchers rejoice, boosting patronage 300%. An online petition surfaces trying to get your restaurant inspected for its lack of cleanliness, but foreign cyber attacks render the internet inoperable. A meteor the size of the Hercules-Corona Borealis Great Wall strikes earth, but you're good. [[Seriously, this is everything you have ever wanted and nothing could possibly happen that would dampen the mood]].

And nothing ever happens that dampens the mood. You are a successful restaurateur for the rest of your life. Though you stick to just the one dish, the influence of your cooking is boundless; copycats spring up across the globe. You are on the cover of Time Magazine eighteen weeks in a row due to a persistent printing error. One Tuesday in September, you are awarded a medal for your achievements in performance art. You accept despite never knowingly taking part in any sort of performance art. You do what you love and you satisfy every customer that walks through the door, customers you come to care about. You can't think of a better way to live one's life. But maybe you still want to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

{ <script> load('Media/Woods2.gif'); load('Media/Woods3.gif'); load('Media/Woods4.gif'); load('Media/Woods5.gif'); </script> }Okay, "best" is probably an exaggeration. You're really good at this, but it's not your best skill. At least, it's not the one you're most proud of. One time, when you played skee-ball, you rolled the ball into the center hole four times in a row. It was batshit fucking crazy. [[You do a thing that you're pretty good at which may or may not be your greatest skill, though you probably wouldn't tell someone it was your greatest skill]].

Well, maybe you'd tell someone. It hasn't ever come up, but you suppose it would be a pretty decent party trick. You'd need a lot of orange juice, but who doesn't have at least ten to fifteen gallons of orange juice on hand at all times? This one time your buddy Kelly levitated off the ground for twenty minutes and anyone who entered her aura sphere burst into unquenchable flames. It was radder than heck. [[You do a thing that you're really good at, though you definitely have other skills and this is one you don't actively tell people about, but it might be useful as a party trick one day, though you're pretty sure it wouldn't be as rad as your buddy Kelly's trick]].

{<script> if (x != -13){x = 13}; spin('Media/music/stomp.mp3'); </script> }You pee for forty-five straight minutes. Nothing passes through you like orange juice. You don't know if you should be proud of this or not. But you do know that it makes you vulnerable against attack. [[Activate animal instincts]]

{<script> if (x != -69){x = 69}; spin('Media/music/outdoor.mp3'); </script> }You flip the switch and the stream of data pours in. Suddenly, you can see and feel and hear and smell and taste. Your brain is almost overloaded, but then it is not overloaded and you are okay. In the distance, you hear an animal. It's a bird! This could be a fatal encounter. [[Listen in]] [[Camouflage yourself|Camoflage yourself]]

{<script> if (x != -69){x = 69}; spin('Media/music/outdoor.mp3'); </script> }"Enhance," you say aloud as you dial your ears into the bird's frequency. The bird chirps a thirty second pattern and then it repeats. It's a man's voice speaking hard truths over lazy jazz--OH! It's the theme song for *Frasier*! You knew that, you overanalytical doofus, you! [[Throw a rock at the bird]] [[Let the birb be!]]

You perform the ultimate camouflage, decomposing your body and assimilating into the earth. The only sign you were ever there is your barely out of place skeleton. Doctor McRee gets that out of there before anyone notices. From your spot in the ground--rather, as the ground, you are able to accurately assess the danger. It's a small bird chirping the *Frasier* tune repeatedly. No physical danger! [[Phew]].

Unfortunately, the bird is immortal and you're not going anywhere any time soon, so you listen to the bird's version of the *Frasier* theme until the end of time and then all the way through Time 2: Return of Time. You beg erosion to take you away, but erosion is an activity, not an entity, which seems like bureaucratical nonsense to you, but it really does mean you can't even make such a request. Every thirty seconds, the bird begins again. Every thirty seconds, you grow a tiny bit sadder. One day, you achieve ultimate sadness. ;_; Perhaps there was something different you could have done with your life? Perhaps spontaneously becoming a part of the ground was not the best way to live? Perhaps you should (link: "try again")[(load-game: "GameStart")]?

{<script> if (x != -26){x = 26}; spin('Media/music/baseball.mp3'); </script> }You go out the same way you came in, but you end up at a baseball game somehow. Not a professional one, no hot dogs and draft beer. The players are children. It's tee ball. You sit on the bleachers and look around. It must be the nineties or the early 2000s. Nobody's on their phone and a girl in a popcorn shirt sits next to a boy wearing nothing but denim. In the distance, you hear the low hum of Westlife. One of the kids hits a mean line drive and runs to first base and stops. The other team fumbles around with the ball for another couple of minutes, but still the kid stays at first. Oh yeah. You remember the single base rule. Since every team of six-year-olds couldn't play defense, they artificially weakened the offense. [[You think you know what happens next]].

Next up to bat is you, a much younger you. He's excited. These games only had six innings or something, so going up to bat was still pretty rare. You've got that orange and green bat over your shoulder. You forgot you actually used that on a team; mostly it just sat in the garage. Mostly. You don't want to watch. [[You watch]].

They set the ball up on the tee for you and you step in the box. You pull back. [[You swing]].

*Ting!* The ball soars into the air, above and past everyone on the other team. It only hits the ground once it's past the fences. To a grown-up, the field isn't so big, but no other kid ever hit a home run that year, not on your team and not in the entire league. [[Little you loses it]].

Your team goes crazy, too. Everyone in the stands is cheering, even the parents for the other team. Now, the other team is kind of bummed, but that's to be expected. Still reeling from the surreality of your first home run, you drop the bat and trot towards first base. Your teammate is so awestruck that she's still there, watching you run, considering the wild improbabilities of a home run. [[Achievement is its own reward]].

Your teammate takes off towards second as you come to first. The other team watches solemnly as you hit the bag and turn towards second. Your mom, swelling with pride, hollers your name from the bleachers. An umpire steps in your tracks halfway between first and second. Another one stops your teammate. "There's a single base rule," he hisses and the dream becomes a nightmare. [["But I got a home run."]]

Grown-up you stands up, walks toward the field. This is your damn memory and you can't let this happen again. "And home runs only get a single base." "No, that's not what the rule's for." You never saw any other kid hit it over the fence. You're pretty sure you're the only one who ever did that season. You are an exceptional case, but some league organizer somewhere along the way had to decide that kids who hit home runs don't deserve to have them. That's what the rules say. Maybe that's not exactly how they planned it, but that's what happened and intention doesn't keep it from being anything short of malicious. "It's the rule. You have to go back to first." Grown-up you hops the fence. Little you sees your teammate walk, dejected, back to second. [[Charge the umpire]]

Little you backs away towards first, tears streaming down your cheeks. You had faced adversity before, but nothing so irrational or so pointless in such an organized form. Everyone watched this umpire steal a home run from a six-year old. Nobody thought it was fair. But nobody did anything. The authority in this situation had free reign and he abused it and the crowd just watched it happen. You're only six-years old. You thought you did well. [[Nobody did anything]].

The fog of memory dissipates. You're in a locked room at Doctor McRee's facility. Not much in here but pictures on the wall. You breathe heavy. Maybe you overreacted, but you never really processed your emotions from then. That was the last year you played tee ball. You can feel that the drugs are wearing off and you haven't even made any gold yet. You're just worn out. [[Call for help]]

You bang on the door and scream for Doctor McRee, but nobody answers. It occurs to you that you aren't sure what time it is. You call for help in intervals you think are close to an hour. In the meantime, you look at the pictures on the wall. They are mostly family portraits, but they're all different. There are several of a man in a dolphin costume. He seems happy. Eventually, Doctor McRee does answer the door. He's in a mauve robe, coffee mug in hand. You explain that you locked yourself in here for some reason and that you didn't transfigure anything into gold, specifically not any everyday objects. He sips his coffee and thinks for a moment. "[[Come with me|alt come with me]]," he says.

He takes you to his office and tells you, "You're lucky to even be alive given what I had you take. No matter. I guess you'll just have to try again." You agree. "I'm sorry about this," he murmurs. "Sorry about wh-" Doctor McRee roundhouse kicks you in the jaw with textbook form. He continues sipping his coffee as you slump to the floor. You'll be fine, but there's no way you're remembering the last twenty-four hours. It's time to (link: "begin again")[(load-game: "GameStart")].

{<script> if (x != -9){x = 9}; spin('Media/music/wiener.mp3'); </script> }Your love for the dachshund knows no bounds. The prospect of a dachshund-only world is immensely promising. Nothing feels different right now, but there are no dogs around. Plus, you've never liked sunglasses anyway. Anyone who can't stare directly at the sun without protection is nothing more than a coward. Sunglasses are the ultimate cop-out. The people who wear them are scared of living life to the fullest, so they limit themselves. [[Live without limits]]

{ <script> load('Media/rainbow.gif'); load('Media/black.gif'); load('Media/pink.gif'); load('Media/limo.gif'); load('Media/qingfan02.png'); </script> }{<script> if (x != -3){x = 3}; spin('Media/music/snake.mp3'); </script> }Choose your albatross. [[Ray-Ban Wayfarers|explain]] [[Gucci Aviators]] [[QingFan Women Summer Aviator Retro Cat Eye Glasses Unisex Sunglasses Metal Frame]]

{<script> if (x != -3){x = 3}; spin('Media/music/snake.mp3'); </script> }You don your sick new shades like Don Giovanni donned that sick mask in Don Giovanni starring Don Giovanni by Don Giovanni for Don Giovanni. Your sick new shades spark and shudder, but you are not afraid. Energy flows from your sick new shades; they power up and their forces combine with your sick new Jordans. The sheer force of the fashionability is enough to level an entire metropolitan area. You feel as though you are a goddess among men, but you keep it cool. To the untrained eye, the teamwork of the sick new shades and the sick new Jordans is blinding. The trained eye wears Gucci Aviators. [[Go out on the town]] [[Transcend the mortal plane]]

{ <script> load('Media/qingfan03.png'); load('Media/qingfan04.png'); load('Media/qingfan05.png'); load('Media/qingfan06.png'); </script> }{<script> if (x != -6){x = 6}; spin('Media/music/owls.mp3'); </script> }You are a person of taste. Nothing compares to QingFan Women Summer Aviator Retro Cat Eye Glasses Unisex Sunglasses Metal Frame. They're quirky, but you own it. For the first couple weeks, your friends and family worry about you wearing QingFan Women Summer Aviator Retro Cat Eye Glasses Unisex Sunglasses Metal Frame all day and all night. They don't understand why you can't take them off. But then, they relent. They've only been writing you off because they're jealous of your charm. They start wearing QingFan Women Summer Aviator Retro Cat Eye Glasses Unisex Sunglasses Metal Frame at all times, too. They're quirky, but they own it. From there, [[the trend only spreads]].

{<script> if (x != -4){x = 4}; spin('Media/music/gucci.mp3'); </script> }(set: $town to 1)You go out on the town and you are "killing it" as they say. You rent a limo and stand through the sun roof. All those unworthy of your presence are struck down before you. As it turns out, that's quite a lot of people and your fresh new duds are deemed a public health hazard. Within twenty minutes of being "on the town," the military is on their way. To find you, they have been told they merely need to seek out the trail of the dead. In better news, this probably means you'll get to be on TV! Quick! Run away and [[transcend the mortal plane|Transcend the mortal plane]]! Quick! Stand your ground and [[take on the military]]!

{<script> if (x != -5){x = 5}; spin('Media/music/valley.mp3'); </script> }(if: $town is 1)[Afraid of the big bad military, you flee, never to be on TV after all! ](if: $gucci is 1)[Your irrational fear of figures exiting helicopters overcomes you. You use your sick new shades and your sick new Jordans not as weapons, but as tools to help you flee like a little bitch. ](if: $gucci is 2)[Her presence overwhelms you. You thought of yourself as strong just because you found new clothes, but you never learned how to use them. You hit the limit of your powers before you even considered you had a limit. At your core, you are weak and immature. You recognize this and scamper away from certain death. ]Your sick new shades and your sick new Jordans take a small portion of your blood as sacrifice and you shudder as you become one with your accessories. An immense power flows through you. Suddenly, you are hungry for croquettes. You fly upwards and out of the mortal plane. (if: $gucci is 0)[You have never felt stronger.](if: $gucci is 1)["Hey, where's my fare?" The limo driver shrieks as you break through to another world. "I thought you were cool, but you're just like all the rest!](if: $gucci is 2)["You worm!" your adversary cackles as you go. She broke your will, but she had hoped to beat you up, too.] [[See what life has to offer for those who transcend the mortal plane]]

In the distance, you see large, golden cities. These sacred cities are the fertile lands in which ancient civilizations live out eternity. They seem to rest upon nothing, for there is no discernible ground. Likewise, there is no sun. The sky is lit by ribbons of soft color which undulate and intermittently shine brief splashes of effulgent hues. All sorts of creatures walk these cities. Warriors clad in Versace armor mingle with slowly loping giants, their faces marred by age and wisdom and adorned by the eyeshadow palettes of Hourglass and Urban Decay. Scuttling beneath the feet of the warriors and giants, there are also many lobsters. This is where the gods live. Earth is merely a playground in which they keep their pets.(if: $gucci is 2)[ You will be safe from her here. But you vow to return and defeat her once you have trained!] Thanks to your sick new shades and your sick new Jordans, this is your home. Go! [[Live among the immortals]]!

In all fairness, the word "live" may have been a tad misleading because that's not what happens at all. You direct your energy towards one of these sacred cities (it looks like it has some pretty rad emeralds, which sets it apart) and as you begin your travels, a sudden realization hits you. It's something that you understand quite immediately as if it were so basic that no processing power would be required to process it, which is true, because what you realize really *is* that basic, so it *does* hit you quite immediately. Honestly, it's quite astonishing to you that you hadn't realized it before you did realize it because it is so easily understood and things that are easy to understand are therefore easy to realize as the words "understand" and "realize" are almost synonymous. The difference is that "realize" implies that you ascertain or have ascertained *new* knowledge, while "understand" implies that this knowledge is already stored away and ready for you to use in future situations which might require you to have that knowledge. Another way of putting it is this following explanation which utilizes chronology and sequence in a way that highlights the difference between "realize" and "understand": it is possible to realize something before you understand it, but it is less likely that you understand something before you realize it. Still, it is important to understand (and realize) that both of these words have to do with processing data. The data in this case was extremely easy to process, so you were able to understand basically at the same time as you realized it. That is to say that you knew the implications of how this knowledge would affect you at practically the same instant in which you learned the knowledge. Knowing how new knowledge affects you when you are in unfamiliar territory is an invaluable asset, rivalled only by knowledge of general sports trivia. Had you known in this moment that on June 12, 1970, Dock Ellis of the Pittsburgh Pirates threw a no-hitter while tripping on acid, then it is possible that you might have smiled a little at that fact and felt a little more connected to history. As it is, you don't know that, which is a shame, but perhaps less pertinent in the short-term than the new knowledge that you realize which arguably makes a larger impression on your final moments than Dock Ellis. This impactful knowledge becomes apparent to you as you direct your energy towards one of those sacred cities (choosing one in particular for its higher concentration of emerald, a shiny object commonly referred to as a gem which you always picture in your head as green despite the fact that emeralds are actually emerald, which is a shade of green, but is not quite green). It is as you begin moving towards this particular sacred city that a sudden realization strikes with the speed of lightning. You can't breathe. The mortal plane has air, but in the immortal plane...bah! Who needs it? You suffocate and die, never having learned about Dock Ellis. This is a true tragedy. If only there were a way that you could [[try again?|Dock Ellis]]

You trot through the woods, gleeful as a raccoon in a rubbish room. It's a beautiful day with the sun shining bright and all around you the trees are barking. Before long, you meet a vicious pack of wiener dogs. You don't find it curious that a large number of wiener dogs would be traveling together deep in the woods. You find it delightful. [[Pet the doggies]] [[Challenge the alpha-wiener]]

Who's afraid of the big bad military? NOT YOU! Despite the fact that you have no weapons outside of an amateur understanding of the deadly force of fashion sense, you tell your limo driver to do another lap around the block. He acquiesces, glad you enjoy riding around the only route he knows. Plus, he gets to pass his favorite sporting goods store: We Sell Bats! Most of the store traffic is people coming to buy flying mammals, but the owners are too stubborn to change the sign. [[The war begins]].

The limo turns the corner and before you stands an army, thousands of soldiers waiting out in the open. A lone helicopter buzzes in the distance. A fleet of tanks is distracted by how much fun it is to run over civilian vehicles. "Fools!" you howl, "You dare approach me with such impudence?! By combining two slightly compatible fashionable choices, I will destroy all current trends! You, my friends in your drab uniforms, are nothing more than a current trend!" You activate your deathly Gucci vision and a great beam of fatal style bursts forth towards the army. The soldiers scream and break formation. They fire at you as they run, but their bullets are obviously from some outlet store. They were only told to expect one person. They didn't know they'd be dressed in designer brands! "MAYBE IF THOSE UNIFORMS WERE ARMANI," you laugh. You are no longer keeping it cool. But you are a deity. Nothing will ever [[defeat you]].

(set: $town to 0)(set: $gucci to 1)The limo driver turns up the radio, unable to hear his groovin' tunes with all the racket going on. Still, you're one of his better patrons. This one guy last week kept joking about the limo being able to transform into a giant fighting robot. It wasn't a funny joke!!! Your Gucci vision sends any remaining soldiers into hiding. You're disappointed that the big fun ended so soon, but before you can ask the driver where the best place around here for Italian food is, the helicopter lands in front of you. [[A figure exits the vehicle]].

With your sick new Jordans, you leap to the top of a nearby building, giving yourself the advantage. But then the figure leaps to the top of another nearby building which is taller than your building, giving them the advantage! [[Leap to the top of a slightly taller building that is also nearby]]

You leap to the top of a slightly taller building that is also nearby, restoring your advantage. But they leap to the top of the tallest building around! No! The gall! The nerve! The chutzpah! [[Roast them with Gucci vision]]

You focus your Gucci vision at the mysterious figure. No one could withstand such supreme power...but the beam of Gucci vision is deflected! They take the full force of your attack and yet they do not move! You stop. She steps out of the shadows, revealing her attire. Nothing but luxury brands in sight. You see the fury in her eyes even behind her limited-edition Queen of Hearts sunglasses from Dolce & Gabbana. Your Gucci vision was blocked by her Prada snakeskin jacket, an almost impenetrable article of clothing. Snakeskin isn't exactly something you'd wear, but there's no denying that it will always be in vogue or that it will always bring its user intense power beyond the normal realm of human ability. We're talking Nicolas Cage on a good day kind of power. [[She speaks]]

You invoke the power of the sick new Jordans once more and leap to her building, screaming "Gucci!" as you fly. She may think she's fancy, but she won't intimidate you. The concrete roof ripples as you land. Your sick new Jordans are an earthquake of their own. "Now you've really done it," she laughs, spinning her Louis Vuitton bag with her Fratelli Orsini gloves. "Who are you?" you shout. "I'm the military's most luxurious soldier. I'm why you pay so many taxes. This bag didn't pay for itself." She laughs, "But what should scare you is that I know what I'm doing and you're just playing with new toys. Everything I wear is as functional as it is fashionable." [["Yeah, well, it's kind of an ugly get-up if you ask me."]] [["Is it too late for you to teach me your ways?"]]

{<script> if (x != -4){x = 4}; spin('Media/music/gucci.mp3'); </script> }(set: $gucci to 2)"You think your sorry Gucci vision can defeat me???" Her scoffs echo across the rooftops. "Just because you have the fashion doesn't mean you know how to wear it! Those sunglasses aren't even in the same color scheme as those sneakers!" You wince at your sick new Jordans being referred to as sneakers. She snarls, her Temple St. Clair earrings swinging with deadly grace, "Besides, the rest of your outfit looks as though you got it off the (text-style: "shudder")[clearance rack]!" You clutch your t-shirt, a thrift store buy. This is bad. [[Jump to her building|Jump over to her]] You're out of your league and you know it. [[Transcend the mortal plane]] already.

"YOU WOULDN'T KNOW A FASHION TREND IF IT HIT YOU IN THE BACK OF THE HEAD WITH A BASEBALL BAT," she howls, slamming the Louis Vuitton bag onto the ground. You can't avoid the wave of concrete she sends rippling toward you and you are thrown back, almost off the edge of the roof. You brace for impact and bruise up your elbow when you land, but you get back up. Maybe you would know a fashion trend if it hit you in the back of the head with a baseball bat. You have an idea. [[Jump off the roof]] [[Use the laces of your sick new Jordans as nunchucks]]

She laughs like a fashionable pirate drinking finely aged grog. Your proposal really tickles her Dior brand funny bone. "I'm not looking to make any friends, pal. It's a lonely life I lead and that's exactly how I like it. Don't think of this as a fight. Think of it as an extermination. You don't stay on top without a clean house!" You think about how messy your room is for a second or two before processing that she only means that metaphorically. However, there is a possibility that her actual house is rather clean. "Your house might not be clean!" You shout back, which is a terrible comeback, but you're having a weird day. You [[fight]].

You dive off the roof. "Had enough already?" she leers, thinking you are simply scurrying away. You land and simply scurry away. You find the limo and you ask the driver a question he's been waiting to hear all his life. [[Where is the closest sporting goods store?]]

You free the laces from your shoes in order that they may reach their full potential of use. You swing them wildly, making it so no enemy could make contact with your body without suffering the wrath of the laces. "COME AT ME," you scream, fighting for your life with a pair of shoelaces. She walks forward, takes off her gloves, and punches you in the face. The shoelaces bounce off of her. You fall to the ground once more. Luckily, you use the already bruised and hurting elbow to brace the fall, so the other elbow is still doing A-Okay. [[She informs you of a critical error in your decision-making]]

You use your sick new Jordans to jump way in the air for an aerial attack from your sick new shades. You may not be able to get past the snakeskin jacket, but something else has to give. As you reach the apex of your jump, you make your war cry and push all your energy through your sick new shades. Tainted by your rage, a torrent of Gucci vision rains down upon your foe. The building below her creaks and sways under the pressure and finally [[it falls into the abandoned street]].

"I'm totally fine, by the way!" your limo driver shouts. "The building you sent crashing into the *street* where I am *currently standing* missed me and the *very expensive limo which represents my entire livelihood*." The driver leans against the limo and shakes his head, "These high fashion types," he mumbles. The driver remembers he has some cheese crackers in the glove box. Mmmmmm. [[The fog clears again]].

As the building ruptures before you, steel and rock tumbling apart, you laugh. You laugh because this is the most luxurious display of strength you have yet to muster, but you're just beginning to understand how much more might you have yet to call upon. You land on what's left of some credit card company's headquarters, feet protected by the mystical air of Jordan, who you think is the Greek god of victory. You can't see your foe through the fog of the dust. You need to find the body. Surely, she's just a body by now. Even the tanks crushing civilian vehicles stop for a moment to watch. Little by little, [[the fog clears]].

{<script> if (x != -4){x = 4}; spin('Media/music/gucci.mp3'); </script> }There is a circle within the ragged line of the collapsed building where all the rubble has been pushed aside. No, the street here isn't even marred. This circle missed the event entirely. In the middle of the circle, on the ground in a snakeskin jacket, she sits. "I was wondering when the fog might clear," she declares lazily. She is completely unscathed. Not even her clothes feature a mark of battle. You might think that a pair of Alexander McQueen embroidered lace-up bootie heels couldn't endure the pressure of a falling skyscraper, but what do you know? [[She stands]]

{<script> if (x != -7){x = 7}; spin('Media/music/heart.mp3'); </script> }"It's a shame," she sneers, "you have such astonishing raw energy. If that were refined, you could be more powerful than even me. Call me wicked, but don't call me dumb. I can't stand to be rivaled. I'll make sure you won't see the sun rise. Don't you love that?" With those last words, her limited-edition Queen of Hearts sunglasses from Dolce & Gabbana activate. They glow and an orb of pink aura surrounds you. It's....[[it's lovely]].

You lay down and look up at the stars which share the sky with still settling dust. The dust spirals in the wind. "When's the last time you took a good look at the stars?" She whispers in your ear. "Never," you reply, "Not as good of a look as this." For the first time you understand that the empty expanses of space do not speak to the insignificance of your life, but that they emphasize how fortunate you are to be alive at all. "Don't you love it?" she asks, kneeling next to you. Encompassed by the pink aura, she looks so much calmer than before. [[You love it]]

Laying at the center of the pink aura, you cry, having never experienced such joy before. "I do. I love it all." "Remember that. You can take that love with you," she purrs as she reaches her hand into your chest, "but I have to take this." She gently pulls out your heart and puts it in her gorgeous Louis Vuitton bag. "It's okay to go sleep," she says softly. "Thanks, by the way. I haven't gotten to use these in a while." She taps her sunglasses. "I forget how it feels." As your vision fades to black and you lose consciousness forever, you can't help but feel perfectly at peace. Permanently smiling, you die with your sick new Jordans on. (link: "Try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

"You're an idiot!" she exclaims, kicking you in the knee, "You may be new to the fashion game, but you need to at least keep your clothes together. We're not just gonna toss specialty fabrics at each other like trendy kids in a snowball fight! The main power of the clothes is in the overwhelming style. How you use that style depends on what sort of fashion statement you're trying to make, but you have to at least maintain functionality to even access that style! Ugghhhh. Well, thanks for letting me rant." She puts the Fratelli Orsini gloves back on and crunches your face in, Gucci Aviators and all. She signals to the tanks that the fight's over and they plead with the general for five more minutes of civilian vehicle crunching. The general, who is in a slightly bigger tank than the rest of them, pretends to think about it for a minute before gleefully telling them okay. The limo driver waits for you all night, but you never come back. Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

{ <script> load('Media/italy.jpg'); load('Media/america.png'); </script> }"WE SELL BATS," he screeches with such fervor that a nearby fire hydrant springs open. He grabs you and tosses you into the back of the limo. Before you can even make yourself a glass of champagne at the mini-bar, the vehicle rockets forward! The energy of the driver and the limo combine to become one. With its newfound strength, the limo bashes through heaps of cars and leaps over lollygagging tanks until finally parallel parking at WE SELL BATS!!! He opens the door to the back, sticks his head inside and squawks, "WE'RE HERE! WE'RE HERE! WE'RE HERE!" He grabs you by your ankles and flings you through the shop window and into the store. Thankfully, you land on your bad elbow. "This place is paradise! All I ask is that you treat it respectfully!" You brush off the broken glass and [[treat this sporting goods store respectfully]].

{<script> if (x != -4){x = 4}; spin('Media/music/gucci.mp3'); </script> }Given the name of the store, you're surprised not to see any bats, but you're not looking for bats. You're looking for bats and thankfully there are bats all around. You grab one. That's all you will need. Just a bat from We Sell Bats which sells no bats, though it does have a lot of bats. [[You exit]]

{<script> if (x != -8){x = 8}; spin('Media/music/souls.mp3'); </script> }"Father," you say aloud, "I must do as you taught me so many years ago. I must avenge you. I will avenge you. The transgressions of the snake will be paid back a hundredfold." The limo driver, who you're making eye contact with, is confused, but so, so proud of you. "Oh, my precious bat-loving son..." he starts, his tears clouding his vision, but you already [[walked away]].

Your opponent has followed you and meets you in the street. "Tell me," you say, "What is your name?" "Amelinda. But I go by Amy." "Alright. Amy, you have taught me much about my powers and I am thankful for that. But do you know that I am so much more than the clothes I wear?" You take off your sick new Jordans and place the Gucci Aviators on the hood of a nearby car. Amy laughs, "You think I will spare your life if you surrender? No. No, that I don't do." "I did not say I was surrendering." "So you're a fool?" You look Amy in the eye. "So I'm a fool." [[You pick up the bat]]

You charge Amy and smack her torso with a home run swing. She buckles to the ground. "It's a pity," you admit, "I like that the jacket even exists. What you've done...there's justice to it." "What are you doing? This is a battle of style!" [[She screams]].

Amelinda receives a soldier's burial in a national cemetery. She is remembered as a hero. After all, it was she who finally broke apart the Soviet Union. After all, it was she who fought and defeated the Y2K bug. After all, it was she who prevented the New England Patriots from winning Super Bowl XLVI. Many of the troops at the site of the battle feel it is wrong that you be her successor given that you killed a great number of their peers, but the general insists. He realizes what an asset you are for the country and also what a pain in the ass it would be to go against you. You are welcomed to your position with a new wardrobe. You meet with Michael Kors and Marc Jacobs and collaborate on an outfit with which [[you will take on the world]].

Nobody's chasing you after your swanky display of power today. Gucci vision is scary enough even the government won't touch it. Still, the fashion world in Europe is said to be fiercer still... You meet up with the limo driver and tell him to drive you to Milan, the fashion capital of the world. Luckily, it's winter, so the Bering strait is frozen enough to drive over. When you get to Milan, you promptly pay the limo driver his full fee. He hugs you. You are his best customer and he hopes to see you again. "You will," you say, despite your lack of any idea why you two would ever cross paths. The driver gets back in the limo and you knock on his window. "I want you to have this." You hand him the baseball bat, which you never cleaned. "Really? You'd give this to me?" He holds back tears. As many times as he's been to We Sell Bats, he's never been allowed to have a bat. "Thank you." [[He drives away]].

For the first couple weeks in Milan, you just watch, collect information on the current trends. You're not sure you even want to be part of this world, but it's not the sort of thing you can leave once you've had a taste. You have to go further here, think three and four trends ahead. You pick up a Gucci jacket and some fingerless Gucci gloves and a Gucci baseball bat. You keep your sick new Jordans, but Gucci's your brand. You start challenging anyone who will fight. At first, they laugh, but your Gucci vision cauterizes their mouths shut and after that they never speak a word against you. You're not the most powerful person in Milan, but you'll make it there. Not by the sweat of your brow, but by the haute of your couture. But maybe that life is too fierce for you. Maybe you want to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

The sunglasses spread like a wonky virus. The makers of QingFan Women Summer Aviator Retro Cat Eye Glasses Unisex Sunglasses Metal Frame can't manufacture enough. Other sunglasses companies go belly up or get absorbed into the giant QingFan Women Summer Aviator Retro Cat Eye Glasses Unisex Sunglasses Metal Frame machine. You go about your day and see people walking their beagles and their dobermanns and the people are wearing QingFan Women Summer Aviator Retro Cat Eye Glasses Unisex Sunglasses Metal Frame. The baristas at your local coffee shop are all wearing QingFan Women Summer Aviator Retro Cat Eye Glasses Unisex Sunglasses Metal Frame. It's so quirky, but they so own it. The pastor at the Baptist church wears QingFan Women Summer Aviator Retro Cat Eye Glasses Unisex Sunglasses Metal Frame because he thinks it will attract a bigger congregation. It does. Soon, the sunglasses reach the faces of American celebrities and [[it's pretty much game over]].

Just one lunar cycle after Flavortown megastar Guy Fieri appears at an Ohio diner, drive-in, or dive wearing QingFan Women Summer Aviator Retro Cat Eye Glasses Unisex Sunglasses Metal Frame, every human on the planet is wearing QingFan Women Summer Aviator Retro Cat Eye Glasses Unisex Sunglasses Metal Frame twenty-four hours a day. Scientists ask: is it still quirky if everyone does it? The people answer: yes! Scientists ask: and do you still own it? The people answer: yes! The scientists are appeased. Everyone is a-pleased. They admit it is a little odd to see babies born already wearing QingFan Women Summer Aviator Retro Cat Eye Glasses Unisex Sunglasses Metal Frame. Ah, well. Could there conceivably be a [[downside to wearing sunglasses twenty-four hours a day]]?

The phrase "twenty-four hours a day" is tricky, misleading. It seems to imply that the sun is always shining. Perhaps this mistake is what led humanity to its ultimate folly. Indoors, you can always keep the lights on, but outdoors, it gets dark. With sunglasses on, even QingFan Women Summer Aviator Retro Cat Eye Glasses Unisex Sunglasses Metal Frame, the darkness becomes opaque. Given time, perhaps humanity could have adapted. The blind fared much better than anyone else in what followed. One could say that they are the sole survivors of the tragedy of QingFan Women Summer Aviator Retro Cat Eye Glasses Unisex Sunglasses Metal Frame. It seems that everyone else relied on their vision just enough to get [[taken advantage of]].

Nobody knows what happened exactly for nobody saw it, but it is sure that humans were knocked down a couple of rungs on the great food chain. Some say it was the owls swooping in and gouging the jugular. Some say it was the bats with bats they got at We Sell Bats. Others claim to have stood beside friends as they were stampeded by great elephants. However, elephants are neither widespread enough nor nocturnal enough for such a claim to make any sense. At first, it's just gleeful killing, but as the animal attackers grow more organized, they topple buildings in the night. Whole cities meet devastation at the paws and claws of unknown forces. They free the zoos, but curiously leave the aquariums alone. It seems that all at once they destroy every Taco Bell on the planet. [[Humanity is reduced to an animal state]].

Still sporting the QingFan Women Summer Aviator Retro Cat Eye Glasses Unisex Sunglasses Metal Frame, humanity reverts to hunter-gatherers. Fires break out, burn the world humans created. There are no nations. There is no industry. The only human organization remaining is the IRS. Sometimes, people get eaten in the night by what might be an evolving form of carnivorous owls, but it's not a bad life, really. Not if you can ignore the rising death toll and focus on your QingFan Women Summer Aviator Retro Cat Eye Glasses Unisex Sunglasses Metal Frame. You try not to think about the babies being born in a world without Taco Bell. You are the quirky patient zero in the human apocalypse. It's a difficult role, but you own it. Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

You do a double front flip into the middle of the pack and immediately cuddle every dog in sight. You make sure every last one is aware of their "good dog" status and not one gets out alive without a belly rub. (All of them get a belly rub, don't worry). The pack of wiener dogs seems shocked to be met with such love and for the first time in their lives, they lick not because they are wounded or because they're drinking water, but because they want to express their love. You are the first to ever give this group of unusually vicious wiener dogs a chance. They invite you back to [[their sick pad]].

If anyone's gonna lead this pack, it's you. You get down on all fours and howl at the moon even though it's daytime. It's very intimidating. The alpha-wiener approaches. He has a scar over his left eye and fangs that don't look like they belong on a wiener dog. Still, you feel an urge to dress him up as a hot dog this Halloween. But first you must defeat him. You must train him to obey. [[The alpha-wiener growls]]

The alpha-wiener senses you as a threat to his pack. He bares his teeth and hunkers down for a fight and it's so overwhelmingly cute. You don't know if you've ever seen anything quite so precious in your entire life. You envision a future life leading him and the rest of the pack. A life of cuddles and play, of squeaky toys and puppy snacks. Yes, you were meant to be the master of wiener dogs. This is a new beginning. You look him in the eye and charge forward. He tears you apart, dresses himself in your blood. You die quickly but very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very painfully. The alpha-wolf isn't so much as scratched. What were you going to do? Tell him to sit? Roll over? The wolves move on to their next adventure and leave your body behind. No one wants to eat human meat these days. Too many refined sugars and food dyes. So you rot. (link: "Try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

Generally, a garter snake is not considered particularly violent, at least towards humans, but certain environmental attributes can be tweaked to allow for it. It is a mistake to believe revenge is unique to humanity. No one can blame your father for discarding the coupons for half-off corn dogs at that time. Though you enjoy corn dogs, you forgave him immediately as you watched from the window, rooting for him from the start. The garter snake does not bite very deep and it is not venomous enough to matter, but with one hundred forty fangs at work, there is particular reason to believe that uncommon things will happen. One hundred forty little fountains of red will fill [[one big well]].

It's a cave. There's no heat or electricity, but there is a couch for some reason. You can't believe a pack of wiener dogs lives like this. There's a deer skeleton in the corner. Any meat left on the bones has gone rotten. "I'm really not a fan of this place." You're honest with them. They appreciate that. You ask the alpha-wolf to come with you and you take him to IKEA. The other customers are apparently unaccustomed to seeing wiener dogs in public and security is called on you several times, but the security officer on duty has an unrelated abnormal fear of wolves. Anyway, you work with the alpha-wolf to pick out some furniture to liven the cave up a bit. You even get some doggy beds. After sharing some Swedish meatballs, you order more meatballs, and after sharing those meatballs, you [[head back to the cave]].

You hadn't expected to ever do interior design work for a cave, but you find that you're quite exceptional at it. After your changes, you wouldn't know it was a cave if it wasn't for the strange Parks Department sign out front that said: "Caution: Cave is a WOLVES DEN." The next day, you get an electrician out there to tap into natural underground electricity and you and your wiener dogs watch Air Bud to celebrate. You wonder how they got so many wiener dogs that are able to act. On their next hunting mission, the wiener dogs stop to get you some Taco Bell. [[You're really a part of the pack]].

Every night, after hours of howling at the moon, you tuck in your friends and they drift off to sleep. Sometimes you watch your wiener dogs sleep and wonder at their potent cuteness. How did you live so long without realizing that all you wanted was to live off the grid in a cave furnished exclusively with IKEA products with a pack of wild wiener dogs? This is the dream. Unfortunately, the United States government is strictly against living out your dreams. More pertinently, they own the land you're living on and do not allow freeloaders. It's fine to have a wild pack of wiener dogs living there, but if a human's gonna live, a human's gonna pay rent! [[The full wrath of the United States government descends upon the wiener dog den]].

You wake up one morning to find that a piece of paper has been left in front of the den. It informs you that what you are doing is considered trespassing. You toss it to the side and continue living with a pack of wiener dogs. If they want to take you away from your family they'll have to [[come and get you in person]].

Thirteen months later, after the paperwork is filed and at the first convenience of the local police department and taking into consideration the prioritization of various other ongoing activities around the city, a junior officer appears at the cave, Officer Dennis Trudeau. He's young. Just out of the academy. He didn't want to be a police officer, but his father is the chief. His father made it seem like an obligation. When Dennis arrives, you are away from the cave, tracking a rabbit. As it's a Saturday, most of the pack has stayed in the cave. Saturdays are lazy days. But Dennis is hostile and this can be no lazy day. Dennis tries to tell the wiener dogs that what you're doing is illegal, that the government is entitled to remove you from their property. Dennis waves a shiny badge and a dumb piece of paper and tells the wiener dogs your day of reckoning has come. When you get back, Dennis is dead. [[Alert the authorities]] [[Say "Aw, shucks" and move on]]

You trot into town and find the police station. People look at you funny, but that's just because you've been wearing the same clothes every day for over a year. Your sick new Jordans aren't exactly looking that new any more. You explain to the police officer at the desk that an officer by the name of Dennis Trudeau has died in front of your residence. The officer asks you to [[wait a minute]] while they go get the chief.

The wiener dogs won't even eat the body, which you get. Too much refined sugar and food dyes, right? So you drag him out into the deep woods and give him a decent burial. "Aw, shucks," you say as you dump the last of the dirt into his grave. You're glad you could bury him. You're not responsible for Dennis's death, but you'd feel guilty if you didn't at least take care of the body. Days go by and you stop thinking about Dennis. You move on. The pack keeps you thinking about what's happening now, about survival. Until you became cohorts with this array of fine wiener dogs, you never truly felt alive. Now, you grasp the full potential of life on a daily basis. You and the dogs are almost through with Breaking Bad. After you finish, you're not sure what the next big project will be. But that's okay. You live in the present now. Every moment is a gift. Wieners for life. Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

The police recover the body. The chief shoots one of the wiener dogs and the rest scatter before he can fire another shot. Your interior design is featured in what proves to be the most successful issue Southern Living will ever have. With no witnesses and plenty of evidence that you lived in the cave, the local police department find a way to pin Dennis's death on you. You are charged with the murder of a police officer and put in a federal mental care facility for the rest of your life. The food is much better than you would expect, but it's not like life in the cave. You don't know why you're on meds or what the meds are supposed to be doing. You want to get out of here, go outside. They want you to stop saying that every dog they show you is a wiener dog. You're not sure why it matters so much. The doctors must not see how adorable they are. Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

Actually, it's the other way around. You're wrong. But with no one there to correct you, you wallow in your ignorance. You imagine vast caves filled with stalagmites that have somehow ended up on the ceiling of a cave. It is a fool's vision, but you are a fool. Alas, such a vision still proves helpful. For the first time, you notice an air vent near the ceiling. [[Figure out how to get up there]]. [[Keep waiting for Doctor McRee]]. Surely he checks in on these rooms often.

Stalactites are the ones on the ceiling because they be hanging, they be TIGHT! Yes! YES! You remember! Your spelunking knowledge impresses the masses and woos exotic lovers. As you imagine the vast wealth and opportunity available to someone with your stalactite/stalagmite-related skillset, you look up towards the ceiling. In a cave, this would be where stalactites are located. But here, it seems to be where air vents are located. [[Figure out how to get up there]]. [[Keep waiting for Doctor McRee]]; he's bound to come here sooner or later. I mean, there's a wall made of oatmeal raisin cookie!

You jump at the vent. [[You fail]].

You survive with just the oatmeal raisin wall for sustenance for five days. If you had any water, perhaps you could have made it longer. By the time you are found, it is the 25th century. Archaeologists marvel at how inferior your bones are when compared to your contemporaries. It is a strange time. Nobody likes chicken noodle soup any more. It could have been worse. At least you stuck to your convictions about waiting and took no action to save yourself. Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

(set: $jump to (random: 0,9))(if: $jump is 0)[Wait a second! You can do this! [[Put on your sick new Jordans]]](else:)[You jump at the vent. [[You fail]].]

{ <script> load('Media/Sand.gif'); load('Media/restaurant.png'); </script> }This time, you leap so high that if there were any stalactites on the ceiling, you would impale yourself. Luckily, Doctor McRee recently had a spelunking expert out last month to remove the stalactite infestation that had cropped up. You punch open the vent and on your next jump, you go inside. [[Crawl]]

It's a tight space, especially trying to fit in eight legs, but if you try your best, you manage to move forward. This isn't as fun as they made it look in Die Hard. [[Keep at it for an hour or so]]

{<script> if (x != -27){x = 27}; spin('Media/music/khan.mp3'); </script> }It's really difficult to get any momentum at all, but after about an hour, you see another opening ahead. Your eyes light up! The sweat you've accumulated greases the surface of the vent shaft and you rollick forward! You bash your head against the grate and follow it to the ground. It's kind of a far drop, actually, but you're still alive! And stretching feels oh so good! [[Stretch]]

{<script> if (x != -29){x = 29}; spin('Media/music/merch.mp3'); </script> }Wow! That feels good! [[Survey the area]]

"Welcome to Punk Rock Merch Warehouse!" A voice calls to you from far away. You find yourself in a building the size of a football field. Ambient tones play over the speakers. The ceiling is white. The walls are white. The floors are white. It's hell for the janitor. In the distance, you see a cash register and a single rack of clothes. You [[approach the rack of clothes]].

As you near the clothing rack, you see that it consists solely of t-shirts. When you finally reach it, you see that they are band shirts for all your favorite punk bands. NoMeansNo! Crass! Black Flag! G.L.O.S.S.! Dead Kennedys! Bikini Kill! Minor Threat! You are impressed by the selection. You are dazzled by the worn-out punk look of every shirt. It appears they are all "pre-distressed," which can only be a good thing. You are not impressed that each is priced at three hundred dollars. You ask the cashier if these shirts are really three hundred dollars. [[He answers]].

Yes. Every shirt is three hundred dollars, tax included. You check your wallet. You have exactly three hundred dollars. [[Buy a shirt]] [[Leave Punk Rock Merch Warehouse]]

{<script> if (x != -29){x = 29}; spin('Media/music/merch.mp3'); </script> }You pick out a Dead Kennedys shirt and bring it to the cashier. "I am a financial masochist and would like to purchase this cheaply made shirt for an exorbitant price." "Thank you," he replies. "It is clear that you have either never listened to this band's music or you have wildly misunderstood the lyrics. Would you like to make a donation to a local oil conglomerate?" You politely decline and put on your new shirt. You [[walk out with your purchase]].

{<script> if (x != -29){x = 29}; spin('Media/music/merch.mp3'); </script> }The cashier stops you as you go. "We also sell drinks! Would you like to try our Ricky Dicky special?" "No, thank you," you tell him and [[exit the building]].

{<script> if (x != -30){x = 30}; spin('Media/music/cockroach.mp3'); </script> }The warehouse is at the end of a long, unmaintained street. Long grass peeks up from the cracks in the road and garbage blows all around, soda cans and fast food containers and broken bottles. There are more than a few mattresses forsaken along the side of the road. You don't know where you are, but it's some kind of desert. Sand follows plastic bags back and forth in the wind. But what catches your eye is that in the midst of all this destitution, there are huge piles of punk rock t-shirts lining the road. As far as you can see, just heaps of the same t-shirts you just saw in the warehouse. Some of the heaps are on fire, some are apparent homes to vermin, and all are left out for just anyone to take. [[You walk on]].

You don't walk long before a man stops you. It's clear he hasn't been able to shower in some time. The only new looking piece of clothing he has is an Operation Ivy t-shirt. It seems difficult for him to maintain eye contact. "Hey, dude, I-I-I only need another thirteen dollars for the bus and I can get outta this d-d-dump and over to where my brother's at. I don't remember his phone, so I haven't been able to talk to him, but if I get there, I can get cleaned up. Get a job, ya know? I just need g-g-get out of here." "Where is this bus at?" "The end of the road that way." He points away from Punk Rock Merch Warehouse. "Can you spare something?" [[Get out your wallet]] [[Tell him you can't spare anything]]

(set: $wallet to 1)You reach for your wallet and he is so grateful, but then there's nothing in it, which you already knew. There's no need to be such an asshole. He walks off in a huff, now angry in addition to desperate. You put your wallet back in your pocket and [[keep walking]].

You tell him you don't have any cash on you, but you don't tell him it's because you just spent three hundred dollars on a t-shirt, over twenty times what he needs to get back with his family. He understands and he's grateful you took time to listen to him. "Enjoy the rest of your day!" he offers as parting words. You [[keep walking]].

You pass pile after pile after pile of these shirts. You don't know who would store shirts out in the open like this, but with the condition of some of them, you're not sure they're of fiscal value to anybody. The ground beside the road is dry and cracked, which keeps reminding you that you're thirsty. You walk half a mile before seeing anybody else. In the distance, there's a person approaching who looks like a suburban mom and you wonder how she ended up out here. As she nears, you switch over to wondering how she keeps her outfit so clean in such a dusty environment. [[She approaches]].

You tell her that you can't make a donation right now. "That's fine. Did you spend it all on that t-shirt? I guess I never understood that side of punk rock. Thanks for your time, I guess." She walks towards where you came from. [[You go the other way|keep walking on]].

(if: $wallet is 1)[You pull the empty wallet trick again. ]You take out your wallet and she seems pleased that there are other people out there who care about veterans, a group of people who have gone through hell for the folks back home. It's so great that you recognize the difficulties of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder as well as simple reassimilation into society. The military doesn't prepare you for home life and you get that they might need a helping hand. But your wallet's empty, just like you knew all along. Her smile disappears. You got her hopes up and tricked her. What a lousy person you are. She leaves you without another word. Her time is better spent tending to those who need her help. You, a shameless scoundrel, [[keep walking on]].

"Hi, my name's Marsha. I'm with the Center for Veteran Relief. We help make sure those who fought for our freedom have access to shelter and we also help them find jobs when they need it." "If you don't mind me asking, what are you doing out in this area?" "Well, this area's one of the local hotspots for the homeless, veterans included. Mostly I'm out here giving out resources and making sure people are healthy. I'm a nurse." Marsha holds up one of her bags. It's packed with medical supplies. "But sometimes people like yourself come from that store down the way and I've had a few people interested in giving major donations so I figured I'd try my luck. Would you like to make a donation?" [[Tell her you wouldn't]]. [[Get your wallet out]].

Now that you think of it, these piles of shirts would make for attractive temporary shelter. That explains why trash tends to congregate around the shirt piles. And you had barely noticed. You reach the top of a hill to find yet another hill in front of you. They're not steep, but you can't see the end of the road or the bus station. It's hot and you just want to get out of here. You're sweating through your shirt. All of your extra legs have dried out and fallen off. Judging by the sun, you've only got a few more hours left until dark. [[Walk! Walk! Walk!]]

You reach the top of yet another hill and finally see the bus station. It's still a while a way, but the end is near! You wonder how many miles of shirts you've already passed. The shirt you're wearing is completely soaked in sweat at this point. You'd give anything for some water. "Hey!" someone calls out from behind you. It's a girl who'd been sitting in the shade of one of the piles. She's wearing a G.L.O.S.S. shirt that looks just like the one at Punk Rock Merch Warehouse. You bet she didn't get it there. She [[speaks as if anticipating rejection]].

"I got nothing," you say, wiping your brow with a three-hundred-dollar shirt. "It's alright. I get it," she assures you. "I didn't realize you were out here broke, too. I just haven't seen you around is all. My name's Connie in case you run by me again." You nod and [[keep moving]].

Since you like tricking people into thinking you're generous, you get out your wallet and say aloud, "I am getting out my wallet now," which emphasizes that what you are getting out is your wallet and not something else from your pocket. It quickly becomes clear that you have nothing in your wallet. "Oh, it's alright. I didn't realize you were out here broke, too. I haven't seen you around. My name's Connie in case you run by me again." You put your wallet back in your pocket and [[keep moving]].

Just a couple more miles to go. You pass by the restaurant Connie mentioned as the sun sets. They let you have a much needed glass of water. The heat dies and gives way to the cool night. It actually feels kinda nice by the time you reach the bus stop. There's a dude in a polo and khakis standing near the ticket office. "You getting out of here? I don't blame you." [[He seems reasonable]].

"So many beggars around here and they try to take your money just to get drugs and liquor. If they want to bend over backwards for such hedonism, the least they could do is get a job. Giving them handouts just feeds a cycle. They’ll never learn. Like birds to the bird feeder. But people like you and me, we know better than to give in to these hippy scumbags who’d rather hunt for a handout than do an honest day’s work. Just because I’ve got an SUV, they have to ride my coattails to manage a basic level of decency? I mean, have some accountability. I don’t owe these bums anything. I worked for my money and contrary to their asinine belief, there isn’t nearly enough to spread around. After I graduated college, I went out and got an unpaid internship and worked my way up at a respectable marketing firm. Maybe if they contributed anything to society, they wouldn’t be bottom feeding out here. They’ll tell you this is a dead end, but you have to get here on purpose. No one’s out there converting people to hobos. Society isn’t ignoring some huge financial crisis or vilifying people because of who they fundamentally are. I mean, I get it, some of these people are crazy and that’s part of it, but why don’t they get help? Again, maybe if they bought a suit and did a couple of interviews, these scabs could get a job with health insurance that would pay for whatever they need! Imagine that! Now, I come out here for that great clothing store down the street, but the people out here just get me down. I mean, there are children out here! They need to go home to their parents. Maybe then they wouldn’t be so hungry! God knows I’m not feeding them. No reason to enable stupidity.” He takes a breath. “Oh, and nice shirt, by the way! (if: $help is 3)[I don't know who that is but it looks punk rock!"](else:)[Gotta love *Milking The Sacred Cow*.”] (if: $help is 3)[You [[buy your bus ticket]].](else:)[ [[You realize that you don't have money for the bus]].]

{<script> if (x != -18){x = 18}; spin('Media/music/tweet.mp3'); </script> }Inspired by an intense hatred of the *Frasier* theme, you chuck a rock at the bird. You miss, but it is spooked and flies away. As it flies away, it chirps the *Frasier* theme as if to say "Curse you, you miserable bastard! Do you seriously loathe this classic television theme so much that you must resort to violence? VIOLENCE ONLY BEGETS FURTHER VIOLENCE, MY FRIEND! FURTHER VIOLENCE SHALL COME TO YOU LIKE WINDOWS YOU DON'T SEE UNTIL YOU FLY INTO THEM. IT SHALL COME WITH THE ROAR OF A JET ENGINE DEVOURING FAMILIES IN A SINGLE BREATH. IT SHALL COME WITH THE MACHIAVELLIAN CUNNING OF A SQUIRREL INFILTRATING THE SACRED FEEDER. THE PITS OF HELL WILL WELCOME YOU AS A LONG-AWAITED FRIEND AND YOU SHALL SUFFER AMONG THE FLAMES." You only know human languages so you continue to urinate in relative peace. [[Looks like a storm is coming in]].

{ <script> load('Media/sleep.gif'); </script> }{<script> if (x != -69){x = 69}; spin('Media/music/outdoor.mp3'); </script> }The birb keeps chirping, just living its best life. You dial back your hearing a bit because, let's be honest, nobody wants to listen to the *Frasier* theme song. After another twenty minutes or so, you finish emptying your bladder and now you're just tired. All that Richard Nixon business and then the orange juice... Just a lot. [[Find a bed]]

Dark clouds lurk in from the east. You hear the thunder rumble like the yawning of giants who have ingested massive amounts of melatonin. You take the opportunity to crank up the subwoofers in your enhanced hearing. "Woof woof!" they growl. You still have at least another twenty minutes to go out here and you didn't think to bring an umbrella. Thunder sounds great, but maybe not the rain. [[Order an umbrella from Amazon Now]] [[Tough it out]]

Scientific advances allow for you to immediately place an order for an umbrella and for it to show up courtesy of an Amazon drone in ten minutes, sometimes less. As you press the "order" button on your phone, the package is already falling in the air and into your arms. How delightful! You throw some garlic bread up to the drone and it floats away. You got a cheetah print umbrella because you've needed a fun umbrella. You have other umbrellas at home, so if you need something plain for a funeral or a walk through a park full of cherry blossom trees then you have a plain umbrella. But for now, it's alright to have some fun with it. [[Twiddle with your cheetah print umbrella while you continue urinating and wait for the rain to come in]]

Despite the means to acquire an umbrella conveniently at your disposal, you decide that you can handle getting a little wet. After all, you won't have to be out here *that* much longer and the convenience costs for Amazon Now are gastronomical! And you know what? Some rain sounds good right now anyway. It's been so long since you got properly drenched. You just hope you can get back indoors before it affects your sick new Jordans. [[Keep urinating and wait for the rain to come in]].

The rain comes in with about ten minutes remaining on your bladder. Thank goodness for the umbrella! It's a bad storm, too. The thunder claps at near deafening levels. You check your decibelometer watch and wonder how long it will keep up at this intensity. You hear something. There is something strange within the storm. It's high-pitched and musical, but carries the wrath of legions. [[It's probably nothing to worry about]].

Turns out, it's pretty worrisome. The bird is back and he's brought friends. They all howl the *Frasier* theme song like some Gregorian chant. You see ten, no, ten thousand birds streaking through the rain towards you. But your bladder does not relent! You are trapped! And the rock you threw earlier is now far away where you cannot reach it! You stand with your umbrella at the ready. Come what may, you're going to [[give these birds a fight]].

The storm clouds ring out thunder like Penderecki's crashing cymbals and the birds descend upon you in a whirlwind of gnashing beaks. You shriek and swing your umbrella wildly at the attackers. Bird after bird after bird falls motionless to the ground. "Only 9,997 birds to go," you think. The fourth bird tears through your cheetah print umbrella like it's the god damn Kool-Aid man. "OH YEAH," it chirps right before digging into your flesh. More birds follow, shredding your umbrella to its skeleton and swarming you entirely. Torrents of rain spill unto the earth and mingle with your blood. [[Petrified, you flail for survival]].

The rain comes in with about ten minutes left on your bladder. It's a bad storm, too. The thunder claps near deafening levels. You wonder how long it will keep up at this intensity. You admit that it would be nice to have an umbrella. You hear something strange within the storm. It's high-pitched and musical, but carries the wrath of legions. You [[think it's probably nothing to worry about]].

Turns out, it's pretty worrisome. The bird is back and he's brought friends. They all howl the *Frasier* theme song like some Gregorian chant. You see ten, no, ten thousand birds streaking through the rain towards you. But your bladder does not relent! You are trapped! And the rock you threw earlier is now far away where you cannot reach it! Damn it! Surely there'd be some military grade umbrella on Amazon. Whatever. You put up the fisticuffs. Come what may, these birds are gonna get [[the fight of their life]]. At least, the birds who hadn't been there for Ali and Frazier.

The storm clouds ring out thunder like Penderecki's crashing cymbals and the birds descend upon you in a whirlwind of gnashing beaks. You growl and throw your fists like a champion boxer possessed. Bird after bird after bird falls motionless to the ground. "Only 9,997 birds to go," you think. The fourth bird dodges your fatal arms and hits you with a kidney shot. "Float like birb, sting like birb," it chirps before digging into your flesh. More birds follow. Not all of them can dodge your nasty right hook, but not all of them have to. They swarm you entirely and your blood spills to the earth, mixing with the torrents of rain. [[You shriek and flail]].

{<script> if (x != -20){x = 20}; spin('Media/music/knight.mp3'); </script> }You walk the halls of the building, searching for a clue. It's a [[much bigger building than it seemed like when you came on]].

{<script> if (x != -17){x = 17}; spin('Media/music/lullaby.mp3'); </script> }You go back to Doctor McRee's building and look around. You pass what looks like a shrine room for Frances Farmer (who everybody forgets was a fabulous actress). The walls are all covered in movie posters and photos while the old reels and Viking helmets are stocked on the floor. Paul Banks is in there combing his hair in the reflection of a photo of Frances' husband. You pass a room that looks to be filled floor to ceiling with PEZ candy, no dispensers in sight. Finally, there's a room full of bunk beds. [[Top bunk]] [[Bottom bunk]]

(set: $sleep to 1)You climb up to the top bunk like you're eleven years old again, sleeping over at your friend Scout's house. You used to go over there every weekend and stay up talking about space and chapter books and what life would be like when you were older. A lot of times now, you just wanna be that age again. You haven't seen Scout in so long. What is Scout doing now? You pull the blanket over you and submit to the soft bed. It doesn't take long for you to nod off into a [[deep, deep sleep]].

(set: $sleep to 2)You're too tired to climb that ladder. Sleeping isn't about having fun, it's about pumping out that sweet, sweet REM! Your eyes go crazy just thinking about it. This bed feels so good, too. There must be something in those drugs you took that just wear your body out. You give in to the comfort and soon you're in the furthest depths of sleep. You dream that you meet the man who invented Tetris and you call him Mr. Tetris and he is incredibly distraught that you don't know his name. You hand him a soft pretzel and he weeps, tetrominoes spilling from his beard. You've only just begun to bond with him when something [[wakes you up|deep, deep sleep]].

(if: $sleep is 1)[You wake up in the middle of the night. Doctor McRee is standing on the ladder and he's shaking your arm.](if: $sleep is 2)[Someone is shaking your arm. "Alexey? Is that you?" you murmur. "Uhhh, no. It's Doctor McRee."] "What? What's going on?" You ask, afraid you've done something wrong by turning this into a sleepover without so much as asking his parents if it's okay. "Just wanted to let you know you ran aground today. You failed. You did some things right. Some things wrong. So you didn't transfigure any everyday objects to gold. But tomorrow's gonna be different!" "Alright, then. See ya tomorrow, doc! And is it okay if I sleep here? Sorry I didn't ask." "Mighty fine, just make sure you don't remember anything from today, okay?" "Remember anything as in--" Doctor McRee covers your mouth and nose with a handkerchief covered in chloroform. You slip back into a heavy sleep and you remember nothing of today's attempt (link: "the next day")[(load-game: "GameStart")].

Most of the doors in this hall are closed so you can't see what's inside. One of them is draped in caution tape and some yellow liquid is creeping out from under the doorway. One of the doors sounds like a rave is going on, but the door is locked. Pity, they're playing that good jungle music. Near the end of the hallway, there are two open doors. In one, there is a collection of suits of armor, each sporting a different medieval weapon, from swords to halberds. This room is filled with gleaming metals. Somebody keeps things polished! In the other open room, a little kid sits on the floor and shoves erasers up her nose. [[Look at the suits of armor]] [[Visit the little girl with seemingly infinite nasal capacity]]

Ahh, yes. Blade geometry. Of course! There are eleven suits of armor in the center of the room, all arranged in a circle. Along the walls are various tapestries that you suppose might have once belonged to the castles of Europe. One in particular catches your attention. It shows a king in the woods. He has a sword in his hand and a score of wiener dogs at his feet, each wearing the royal colors. As with most medieval art, you're not sure if this is supposed to be a joke or not. You turn to the suits of armor and inspect them. You tease the point of a spear with your index finger. Blood trickles in a tiny stream. This is the real deal. Your gaze turns towards the suit of armor with the sword Perhaps it is the solemn atmosphere of silence, but the suits of armor are more daunting in person than they are in pictures. [[Pick up the sword]]

You peek your head inside the room. In front of the little girl is a bucket filled with neon colored erasers and she's shoving them up her nose like there's no tomorrow. You're immensely impressed. This is something you can't do now, let alone at her age. [[Tell her to stop]] [[Cheer her on]]

"If you keep doing that, you'll erase everything inside of you! You have to stop!" She stops putting erasers up her nose and stands. She points at you and stares into your eyes. "I DON'T NEED NOBODY TELLING ME WHAT TO DO. IF YOU'RE LOOKING TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO, WELL YOU CAN BUGGER OFF!" [[Bugger off]]

"You are a superstar and an inspiration for the rest of the world. This is obviously a practiced talent and it's rewarding for me as a mere onlooker to see such complex talent at work. You absolutely must keep shoving erasers up your nose!" She stops shoving erasers up her nose and stands. You wonder how much of her is made of rubber. She points at you and stares into your eyes. "I DON'T NEED NOBODY TELLING ME WHAT TO DO. IF YOU'RE LOOKING TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO, WELL YOU CAN BUGGER OFF!" [[Bugger off]]

Startled, you leave her alone, shutting the door behind you. That's that, then. You shrug and go [[look at the suits of armor|Look at the suits of armor]].

You wrestle the sword from the gauntlet that holds it. Sword in hand, you envision yourself as a knight of the 14th century. You thrust and slash at the air. The sword is heavy and your technique is awkward. You can't imagine how people used to do this while wearing full suits of armor. Since you have strange troubles with your imagination, you opt for some hands-on experience and [[put on the suit of armor|pre visor]].

Luckily for you, whatever knight this suit was made for was just your size. Hot diggity! As you put on the chain mail, you think of all the people before you who laid so much on the line while wearing one of these. You have a newfound respect for those brave actors who play knights on television. They must go through a lot. You pick up the sword again and try to jab and slash some more. You're terrible, but only as terrible as you were before you put the suit on. The suit adds some weight, but it seems pretty mobile. [[Enter gymnastics tournament]] [[Stand next to the other suits of armor and pretend like you're just a suit of armor so that you can come to life and scare whoever comes by|Stand next to the other suits of armor and pretend like you're just a suit of armor and scare whoever comes by]]

You travel thousands of miles to a gymnastics tournament in Wichita only to find out that contestants are not allowed to wear full suits of armor during competition. You beg and plead and insult their honor, but the judges do not budge. You howl and screech and scream and shriek, "I will bring a curse upon this establishment!!! Sedgwick County Gymnastics Emporium will rue the day!!!" Very soon after your howling and screeching and screaming and shrieking fit, you are politely asked to leave and you take your exile with dignity. It's getting pretty hot in the armor anyway, so you go grab [[a refreshing smoothie]].

Giddy with excitement, you stand perfectly still next to the other suits of armor. This is going to be the [[best prank ever]].

You keep standing there, thinking of how funny it's going to be when somebody walks by and you go "Boo" and pull a sword on them. No one expects that! You're just a decoration! YOU'RE SO FUNNY! [[Wait]]

[[Keep waiting]]

[[Wait some more]]

[[Fall asleep in the suit while you're waiting]]

[[Wake up in 14th century France]] [[Wake up and keep waiting]]

Ahhh, the Middle Ages. Those pesky vision-polluting billboards hadn't really taken off yet, so life was beautiful whether you were a king or a peasant. Truly, a time of good fortune and good health for all. The benefits of basic antiseptics have been grossly exaggerated by the modern medical community. In one direction, an expanse of woods approaches a delightful castle, no excess road construction in sight. What a lovely place to live. Above the castle, a flock of birds take a pleasant afternoon flight, certainly not spreading any diseases that will be treated with bloodletting or exorcism or some other crazy shit. You wonder how finding a real estate agent here will work. You'll also need a lovely place to live while you're here. You've got three hundred American dollarooskies in your wallet, which should get you pretty far in 14th century France. [[Look in another direction]]

[[Waiting is so much fun]]!

"I'd like the Strawberry Passion Explosion Delight and I'll add peanut butter," you tell the acne-covered beast which guards the holy trove of blended beverages. "That'll be $9.67." You slam the required fare upon the countertop and the beast works with haste. Soon, he returns with the petitioned potion. "Thanks, have a nice day," he wretches. You spend a good deal of time figuring out how to comfortably get the straw through your helmet, but it's really not that hard once you figure out how to flip up the visor. The Strawberry Passion Explosion Delight with added peanut butter provides you with the visceral experience you've been craving. You are refreshed beyond belief and ready to take on the feudal system. Look out, Kansas. Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

[[Now's a great time to catch up on some reading]].

[[But you're gonna keep waiting instead]].

[[Give it another day or two]]

[[Give it another week or two]]

[[Give it another month or two]]

[[You've always thought that you'd be a great waiter]].

[[And here you are]].

Wait a second, someone's outside the door. You haven't showered in almost a year while you've been living without food or water inside a metal suit. [[Wait eagerly]]

Oh, they're just passing by. [[Go back to waiting|fakewait]]

(save-game: "Wait")(set: $wait to (random: 0,25))(if: $wait is 0 or $wait is 25)[You finish waiting! For the sake of a prank, you wait for the rest of your life until you die inside the suit of armor. Anyone else would say that you led a pretty sad existence there at the end, but you lived with conviction and purpose. That sort of lifestyle is much more valuable than people give it credit for. What you never realize in your decades of waiting is that every other suit of armor in the room also holds someone who waited to pull that prank. The most recent person died just a week before you entered the room and by god they woulda spooked ya! You complete the circle of eleven corpse knights in shining armor, which would be poetic if it weren't so macabre. Alright, maybe it's both. Anyways, archaeologists are gonna have some fun with this room. Cheers! Maybe you should (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]](if: $wait is 1)[You've never felt so invigorated in all your life. ](if: $wait is 2)[Just gotta keep waiting. ](if: $wait is 3)[You were destined to wait. ](if: $wait is 4)[Wait wait wait... ](if: $wait is 5)[Gotta keep on waiting. ](if: $wait is 6)[Waiting is fun. ](if: $wait is 7)[Time flies when you're waiting! ](unless: $wait is 0 or $wait is 25)[(link: "Wait some more")[(load-game: "Wait")]]

[[Wait some more|fakewait2]]

[[Wait some more|fake wait3]]

[[Wait some more|Go back to waiting]]

"Oh, you pissant. What? You spent all your money on your sick new Jordans? Maybe think about how you spend your money some time. You saps are always throwing money at luxuries like basic telecommunications and decent clothes and trips to the movies. If you don't have the money to enjoy something, maybe you shouldn't enjoy it." He spits at your feet. The bus is here and he gets on. The driver shuts the door on you. Guess this is your new home. Or maybe there's somebody with the money to buy a three-hundred-dollar shirt out there that will give you the human courtesy of a helping hand when you most need it. And you're hungry, too. Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

(set: $help to 0)You don't walk long before a man stops you. It's clear he hasn't been able to shower in some time. The only new looking piece of clothing he has is an Operation Ivy t-shirt. It seems difficult for him to maintain eye contact. "Hey, dude, I-I-I only need another thirteen dollars for the bus and I can get outta this d-d-dump and over to where my brother's at. I don't remember his phone, so I haven't been able to talk to him, but if I get there, I can get cleaned up. Get a job, ya know? I just need g-g-get out of here." "Where is this bus at?" "The end of the road that way." He points away from Punk Rock Merch Warehouse. "Can you spare something?" [[Get out your wallet|Get out your wallet 2]] [[Tell him you can't spare anything|Tell him you can't spare anything 2]]

(set: $family to 1)You get a twenty out of your wallet and hand it to him. It's a small price to pay for getting a man back to his family and you're glad to be able to help. "Thank you. S-s-so many people have passed by. This really means the world to me." He hugs you, which you're ambivalent about, but happy that he's happy. He tucks the money away and skips off somewhere. You [[keep walking|Keep walking 2]].

(set: $help to $help + 1)You lie and tell him you don't have any cash on you, hiding the fact that currently you have three hundred dollars in your pocket, enough to reconnect him with his family twenty times over. Still, you wonder what he's actually going to use the money for. He understands and he's grateful you took time to listen to him. "Enjoy the rest of your day!" he offers as parting words. You [[keep walking|Keep walking 2]].

You pass pile after pile after pile of these shirts. You don't know who would store shirts out in the open like this or why anyone would think to sell them for three hundred dollars when they're in such abundance out here. Moreover, who's buying them at that price? The ground beside the road is dry and cracked, which keeps reminding you that you're thirsty. You walk half a mile before seeing anybody else. In the distance, there's a person approaching who looks like a suburban mom and you wonder how she ended up out here. As she nears, you switch over to wondering how she keeps her outfit so clean in such a dusty environment. [[She approaches|She approaches 2]].

(set: $help to $help + 1)Despite the three hundred dollars in your pocket that could help countless homeless veterans, you tell her that you can't make a donation right now. "That's fine. Did you spend it all on that t-shirt?" She seems to think you bought it. "I guess I never understood that side of punk rock. Thanks for your time, I guess." She walks towards where you came from. You think about all the better ways you'll be able to use your money and [[you go the other way|keep walking on 2]].

(set: $vet to 1)You take out your wallet and she seems pleased that there are other people out there who care about veterans, a group of people who have gone through hell for the folks back home. The military doesn't prepare you for home life and you get that they might need a helping hand. You hand her a few twenties. Surely the homeless veterans will need it more than you. "Your country thanks you!" She cheers, "Sometimes all these veterans need to get by is a good meal, some job direction, and a flu shot. People don't realize how hard it is to come back from war. Seriously, thank you." She shakes your hand and continues down her path. You [[keep walking on|keep walking on 2]].

{<script> if (x != -31){x = 31}; spin('Media/music/zodiac.mp3'); </script> }She grabs a Hot Wheels backpack she has stashed by the shirt piles and you both walk to the restaurant. It's a typical American burger bar with dirt cheap prices. You share a meal with the girl and find out her name is Connie. She eats three whole burgers before you can get any real conversation out of her. She got kicked out of the house by her mother, but doesn't really want to talk about why. You get the feeling she'd be allowed back, but her mother is abusive and unreasonable. You're curious what the tipping point was, but you respect her want for privacy. She'd go to her dad, but he moved across the country and they don't talk. Apparently the shelters haven't treated her right and she doesn't want to go to a foster home, either. So here she is. You want to help her, but you don't know how. [["Is there anything I can do to help?"]]

(set: $help to $help +1)"I got nothing," you say, wiping your brow with the Screamers shirt. "It's alright. I get it," she assures you. "I didn't realize you were out here broke, too. I just haven't seen you around is all. My name's Connie in case you run by me again." (if: $help is 3)[You nod and [[keep moving]].](else:)[You nod and [[keep moving|keep moving 2]].]

"The meal is enough, thank you... Well, I could use a bus ticket. And money. For like, food and stuff. If you can spare it. Seriously, you already bought me food." "A bus ticket?" "Yeah. See, I've got a friend in Springdale. She gets me. I don't know if her parents would let me stay or whatever, but they're good people. I think they'd want to help." [[Buy her a bus ticket]] [[Tell her you can't cover a bus ticket]] [["Let's call the police. They have resources available for homeless kids."]]

"How much is the ticket?" "From the station down the road, it's usually $111. $165 on weekends." "Okay. I can do that. But hey, I can take you to a transitional living center or something myself if you don't know about your friend's parents? I don't know what your mother's done, but they'd make sure you guys stay separated." "No. No, no, no. I don't want to deal with all that. Not with--I just want to be with my friend right now. I don't know about that yet. Thank you." "Okay." You pay the bill at the restaurant and [[walk with her to the bus station]].

"Well, how much is the ticket?" "From the station down the road, it's usually $111. $165 on weekends." "Oh, yikes. I don't think I can swing that. Sorry." It wouldn't bankrupt you, but that's a lot of money to hand a stranger. "Oh, okay. Well, still thanks for the meal and talking to me. I haven't had a decent conversation in...in a while." You pay the bill and part ways with her, wishing her luck. She walks back down the road, kicking at the rocks on the ground. You walk the rest of the way to [[the bus station]].

She's got a lot more energy now than when you first saw her. She didn't seem like a kid then, but now she's jumping around, her backpack bobbing behind her. You wonder how long she's been out here. At her age, you'd probably be watching cartoons and making peanut butter sandwiches right now. Why would anyone turn away their own child? What a vile woman her mother must be. Not to mention her father. You reach the bus station as day transitions to night. The overwhelming heat finally gives way to a cool breeze. The fare to Springdale is $111 and you pay it without hesitation. "Connie, are you sure you want to go alone?" "I've made it this far, I think I can handle a bus ride," she laughs." You ask the bus station attendant for a pen and they hand you one, but they refuse to give you any paper so you take of your Screamers shirt (two layers was getting a bit much anyway) and [[write down your phone number for Connie]].

"Call me if things get bad again. I don't know what I'll be able to do, but I promise I'll try." "Okay," she replies, unable to hide her grimace as she takes the sweat-soaked shirt. "Hey, thanks for seeing me as who I am. My life's a little upside down right now and I haven't gotten a lot of that lately." "You're welcome." The bus to Springdale shows up half an hour later and she gets on. She seems nervous, but more than excited to get out of here. [[You hope she makes it okay]].

By the time you make it to the station, it's night. A bus is leaving just as you arrive and you sprint towards it, afraid it's the last for the night. It doesn't stop. You fall to the ground, totally worn out by this whole day. After a couple minutes, you make it over to the ticket office and they tell you that there are two more buses that night. The one to Springdale in twenty minutes and your bus an hour after that. You buy a ticket and sit on a bench. The night air wafts in through the open windows and the breeze feels so good. You can already tell that you're going to put in some legendary sleep on this bus ride. Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

Just a couple more miles to go. You pass by the restaurant Connie mentioned as the sun sets. They let you have a much needed glass of water. The heat dies and gives way to the cool night. It actually feels kinda nice by the time you reach the bus stop. A bus is leaving just as you arrive, but thankfully it's not your bus. You walk up to the ticket office and [[buy a bus ticket]].

You buy your bus ticket and your new friend continues his monologue with tips for hoarding wealth and getting huge tax write-offs. He attacks the credibility of the poor some more, somehow throwing reverse racism into the equation. You're not unhappy when his bus arrives and you don't have to listen to him anymore. You're not trying to hoard your money, you're just conscious of better ways to spend it than reconnecting someone with his family, helping veterans in need, or allowing a homeless child even a single meal. Your money is your money and your morals are the best morals. There's nothing to be ashamed of. Plus, you didn't fall for that scam at Punk Rock Merch Warehouse. Now that's punk rock. Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

Your bus won't be here for another hour and a half, which gives you time to relax on the bench at the station. No one's here but you and the person in the ticket office and they're not exactly personable. (if: $family is 1)[You wonder how long ago the man trying to get to his brother passed through here. Maybe he'd be here later tonight.] (if: $vet is 1)[You are worried by the idea that there are veterans out here. Anyone willing to risk it all serving our country deserves a great place to come home to. This isn't it.] No, this certainly isn't a great part of the world, but you're pleased to be able to do something for someone while you were here. Hopefully that kid gets things figured out. After a while, the bus will come. For now, you enjoy the night breeze on your sweat-soaked shirt. Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

{<script> if (x != -1){x = 1}; spin('Media/music/welcome.mp3'); </script> }<center><img src="Media/title2.png"> <span> [[START|welcome]] [[INSTRUCTIONS]] <a href="https://blakepipes.bandcamp.com/album/everyday-objects-to-gold" target="_blank">SOUNDTRACK</a> [[CREDITS]] <button onclick="mute()" class="button">Mute sound</button> <button onclick="unmute()" class="button">Unmute sound</button> </span>

Just so we're absolutely clear, you are a wicked little stain on this world. Your actions today epitomize what it means to be morally reprehensible. You made a deliberate assault on all life on all levels. You had an opportunity be a part of the cure, to destroy the unholy relic; instead, you were part of the disease--the most malignant, wretched disease this world has ever seen. Know that Hell is not where you go from here. Yes, even Hell has limits on who it will take. Where you're going will teach you to see Hell as a paradise. Suffering will take on new dimensions in your curious afterlife. There is no pity for you. You knew the cost of liking Coldplay and still you let your soul corrode. The lights are out. You can't be saved. [[Beg to try again]]

All is lost. You are neglected, left to count up your demons. You grovel and you appeal to higher powers, but there is no one left who will listen. Your anguished cries are met only by silence. You don't deserve another try.

{<script> if (x != -16){x = 16}; spin('Media/music/train.mp3'); </script> }The fire growls, hungry for Coldplay. You place it on the fire and run back about twenty feet, expecting the record to summon bolts of lightning or spew the blood of the innocent or at least emit an evil aura as it burned. But the obscene token of malevolence meets its death with no theatrics. The album sizzles, its smoke climbing toward the stars as it finally takes a form that is not hazardous for human health. [[The beast is slain]]!

You drop the machete. It clangs against the tile floor, spins to touch a growing red puddle. The cops rush in and you pledge to cooperate, but they still force you to the ground with maximum effort. A portly officer forces handcuffs onto you. He and a much skinnier officer take you by the arms and escort you out of Doctor McRee's building. As she reads you your rights, you can't help but wonder if mutilating a reputable doctor with a machete was your best course of action. They shove you into the back of a police car and [[slam the door]].

You are trapped. A raucous applause bursts from the dozens of officers that now surround you. Doctor McRee sent every single one of them fruit baskets every year on Leif Erikson Day. They couldn't save their friend with the fruit, but they could catch the crook who brought him down. You escape with your life, but for the crime, it will be life in prison. After being denied parole for the second time, it becomes clear that the police force can pull some strings to decide who stays and who leaves. You decide to use all the favors you have to get a belt smuggled in. It's a belt meant for children, but it's sturdy. At one in the morning, you hang yourself from the top bunk. You die after forty-five minutes of struggling to prevent yourself from breathing. The pink and purple rhinestones digging into your neck leave pockmarks still present at the autopsy. Perhaps you should have just went along with Doctor McRee's well-laid plans. He prepared fresh-squeezed orange juice and a platter of ominous pills just for you and you squandered it! Squandered it! (link: "Try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

Wait... What's this spewing from his neck? Is that...GOLD??? He actually showed you the way! You transfigured Doctor McRee into gold! The lessons worked! You [[blink and rub your eyes]], unable to believe your good fortune.

{<script> if (x != -70){x = 70}; spin('Media/music/outdoor2.mp3'); </script> }Rather, Richard Nixon is pretending to be your friend for some (likely malicious) reason. He's got a mask on that might look like your friend, but you see right through it. You've never met Richard Nixon, but you have met your friend. Your friend looks nothing like Richard Nixon and Richard Nixon certainly doesn't look much like him which makes it all the more maddening that Richard Nixon thought he could get away with masquerading as your friend. You're getting woozy just thinking about it. Totally unrelated, you wonder when the drugs are going to kick in. Shake Nixon's hand, give him the [[glum grip of love]].

To relieve stress, some days she would find non-renewable resources on American soil and teleport them to the bottom of the ocean. Usually it was gold or another metal, but sometimes she felt it necessary to launch fully realized products into the murky depths. Henry Ford recalls watching several Model T's coast into the Mariana Trench. "I kept telling her that the vehicles were not meant for underwater use, but she didn't seem to care. She opened up a gaping portal to what looked like the underworld of Atlantis and she pushed car after car down there. But what's important to realize is that there *were* Ford vehicles down there. I am a golden god of transportation on land *and* in water. Suck my stick shift, fish bitches!" In any case, Deborah understood that the Bureau of Investigation could not be taken seriously in its current state. After stuffing six loaves of pumpernickel bread into each of her thighs, Deborah lapsed into [[hibernation]].

Confound it, Richard Nixon really could have done anything with your friend! This is the same guy who planned an FBI operation that involved setting up cameras behind two-way mirrors on a yacht and filling the yacht with enemy politicians and plenty of pre-paid sex workers in an attempt to tarnish the credibility of the politicians. And your friend hates being filmed! [[Take off this ludicrously inaccurate mask and reveal Richard the Chicken-Hearted|Take off the mask]].

{<script> if (x != -4){x = 4}; spin('Media/music/gucci.mp3'); </script> }What's this? Someone dares oppose you? "I can't get anywhere with this shit in the street," the driver yells back to you, "but you're paying me by the hour, so I guess it's okay." [[Obliterate the opposer|Exterminate the opposer]] People in helicopters are actually pretty scary. Just [[transcend the mortal plane|Transcend the mortal plane]] already.

Onwards, my friend! And don't forget to (link: "never forget American hero Dock Ellis")[(load-game: "GameStart")]!

You fight well, killing scores and scores of these birds with nothing but your fists. You are mighty and you are fearsome, but alone you are not enough. If only you had purchased an umbrella to aid you in this trying time. Still, you have to remember you insulted the Frasier theme. Therefore, you insulted the natural order of the world. Only your death can repay such a debt. You die laying in a puddle of your own piss and blood as thousands of birds circle above you warbling the eternal notes of the *Frasier* theme song. "At last," you think as your consciousness fades, "I can be away from that execrable theme." Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

You fight well, killing scores and scores of these birds. You are certainly mighty, but alone you are not enough. Remember, you insulted the *Frasier* theme. Therefore, you insulted the natural order of the world. Only your death can repay such a debt. You die with a tattered cheetah print umbrella laying in a puddle of your own piss and blood as thousands of birds circle above you warbling the eternal notes of the *Frasier* theme song. "At last," you think as your consciousness fades, "I can be away from that execrable theme." Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

Grown-up you tackles the umpire, pins him to the ground. "WHY WON'T YOU LET ME HAVE A HOME RUN?" Before he can respond, you're hitting him, bashing away at his face. "WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?" He tries to stand, but you keep him pinned. He doesn't say anything. He can't. He's just a memory and this isn't what happened. Little you is crying on first base. You remember your team won't even get enough hits to bring you home. [[Get out of there]]

A railing is put up around the liquid so that spiders touring your historic shoes don't fall in and get stuck. The spiders successfully campaign for the area to become a federally protected landmark. Unfortunately, it remains a popular spot for spiders to commit suicide. Many still argue that spiders lack the sentience required for something like suicide. Many haven't seen the effect of water weight on a spider. They're sentient, alright. Guilty about teasing thousands of spiders for their weight, you made the ultimate sacrifice to compensate. For anyone with a particular affinity for man-eating spiders, what you did is undeniably heroic. Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

In truth, your hope to see the finale of Matlock kept you alive much longer than you could have reasonably expected. Had you used that willpower to do basically anything other than watch a television show, there's a very real chance you would have survived. Somebody should have told you that Matlock isn't even worth watching decades after the fact, but it's your last wish, so maybe you would have been just as irrational even if they did. As you pass into the eternal sleep (while mentally quoting that freaking Sonic ad that's on right now), your only regret is that you couldn't finish Matlock. That's really not a tragedy, but okay. Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

"Hi, sorry to bother you, but I was just wondering if you had any water or money or anything you could spare? It's a real dead end out here." She's too young to be here. Must be fourteen years old or so. Seems to be able to find makeup okay, though. "I don't have any water. What about that woman going around with the supplies and stuff? Didn't she give you anything?" "Oh, her," she says, looking down and twiddling her hair bow, which is covered in dust. "She, uhh, doesn't like me, so she always skips me. A few of those types do. You got food? Anything at all? There's a restaurant down the way if you've got any money." [[Grab your wallet]]. [[Tell her you've got nothing]].

{<script> if (x != -30){x = 30}; spin('Media/music/cockroach.mp3'); </script> }"Hi, sorry to bother you, but I was just wondering if you had any water or money or anything you could spare? It's a real dead end out here." She's too young to be here. Must be fourteen years old or so. Seems to be able to find makeup okay, though. "I don't have any water. What about that woman going around with the supplies and stuff? Didn't she give you anything?" "Oh, her," she says, looking down and twiddling her hair bow, which is covered in dust. "She, uhh, doesn't like me, so she always skips me. A few of those types do. You got food? Anything at all? There's a restaurant down the way..." [[Go to the restaurant]]. [[Tell her you've got nothing|Tell her you have nothing 2]].

Your bus will be here in an hour. You're exhausted by everything you've been through today; after being drugged and assailed by legions of spiders, gaining six more limbs and subsequently quietly losing them in the heat, it's difficult to reconcile how you are still so much more fortunate than so many others. You want to help, so you do, but it's still hard to be optimistic with so much misery thrown back and forth in the world. You can only do so much. But you have to keep trying. Even if the world stays miserable, you have to keep trying. Would you like to (link: "start again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

Before they think to speak again, the car is pulled back into the street and flipped on its side. The engine spills both parts and fluids into the street. The windows break, glass immediately whipped away by the tide. Shoe boxes and CD cases slip into the street and they, too, are beaten, ravaged by the water. As the current drags the Volkswagen finally out of frame, the tires spin as if weeping. The doors, unhinged by the wreckage, start to flap open and closed with no pattern, no remaining pretense of control. The body has gone limp. The body cannot respond. The body is in a free fall. Though the body is bleeding, the body must take it. Though the body is broken, the body must take it. Though the body is ruined, the body must take it. [[Dinner is ready]].

This is when you realize that the gold is liquid and that the gold is dripping to the floor, revealing the completely normal and not made of gold wall behind it. The gold also smells weird, like it's excess liquid that a human body processed and decided it didn't need. This is when you realize that the room is covered in urine. You peed on everything. You got stressed out about your sick new Jordans and you peed on everything. This is when you remember that you do this every time you drink orange juice. But the drugs definitely helped increase the carrying capacity of your bladder. That much is evident. Oh my god. (link: "Try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

"What did you do?! You savage! That was my son!" the chief screams. "I did nothing. I wasn't there." "You're the one who's been living up in that cave, aren't you? You're the only reason he had to be up there! He kept asking to take your case and I always said no!" "I am! I don't mean harm to anyone. I promise. I just want to be with my family. They're the ones who did this. I'm sorry." You know they thought they were protecting themselves, but it's so hard to justify the loss of a son. "Your family did this? Well, who's your family?" "I live with a wild pack of wiener dogs. They killed your son while I was hunting." "... Excuse me? You're telling me that my son was killed by a pack of wiener dogs who live in a cave?" "Yeah. Wiener dogs. Dachshunds. that's what I'm saying." [[You stick to that story]].

{{ <script> load('Media/start.gif'); load('Media/welcome.jpg'); load('Media/shot.jpg'); load('Media/blood.jpg'); var m = 1; var x = 86; </script> }(live: 5s)[ <span id="next">[[Begin]]</span> ] }<center><img src="Media/title2.png"><span> *alchemy for the masses!*</span> |text>[<span>loading...</span>] <span>use desktop for best experience</span> {(live: 5s)[ (replace: ?text)[<spandex>CLICK ANYWHERE</spandex>] (live: 1s)[(replace: ?text)[<spandex>(text-style: "blink")[CLICK ANYWHERE]</spandex>] (stop:) ]]} <img src="Media/title3.png">

INSTRUCTIONS To play the game, go back to the start menu and hit the thing that says START. The game is best played with a horizontal orientation. There is also sound! Best enjoyed with your speakers on! Disclaimer: In no way should any part of this actually be used as a guide, but if you must do so, PLEASE Do not kill anybody. Do not burn plastics at home. Do not, under any circumstances, drink orange juice. Otherwise, everything else seems safe enough, I guess.

CREDITS *Everyday Objects to Gold* was written, programmed, scored, and illustrated by Blake Pipes. The soundtrack was mastered by the inimitable, irreverent, Stephen Sesso. A photo of a certain mustachioed figure was taken by the crowd favorite Jeffery Villanueva. The soundtrack features "The Hour of Souls," "Valley's Descent," and "Sleep Paralysis" by Twins of Desolation, but that's also Blake Pipes. *Everyday Objects to Gold* was put together using Twine, an open-source tool for telling interactive, nonlinear stories. Go make something yourself! SPECIAL THANKS Thank you all of my beta testers: Miranda, Chris, Adriel, John, Krista, Patrick, Ian, other Ian, Stephen, and Derek. Your feedback was immensely helpful. Thank you to Derek for engaging me in the conversation that inspired this whole thing. I wish I could remember the context of our conversation. I'm sure you have no idea what I'm talking about. Thank you to Greyelf and TheMadExile on the Twine forums. Your answers have been an invaluable resource. © Copyright 2018 Blake Pipes Contact me at dungeonmaster@everydayobjectstogold.com

(live: 3s)[(go-to: "it gold")]

It's gold! The burnt record turned into gold! Not just a little of it, but all of it! The alchemy is complete and now it is worth so much more destroyed than it was intact. "Next time, you'll want to burn it on something where you don't have to pick through twigs to get the good stuff, but you've figured it out." "I don't understand. How did I do this? I didn't mean to do this. That's gold? I made gold?" "Yes, that's gold. And it's all yours! You learned thanks to the genius of my system. It never fails. I had to let you figure out how to get here on your own, but now I'll [[tell you why this works|let me give you the specifics]]."

(live: 1.5s)[(go-to: "motions towards the fire")]

(live: 1.5s)[(go-to: "visor vision")]

(live: 2s)[(go-to: "while wearing full suits of armor")]

In another direction, a laughing horse fails to amuse the audience at a local open mic and joust. You can see that the poor animal is giving its best, but the cultured nobles are entertained exclusively by people who juggle while wearing mildly humorous headgear. These fat cat jugglers have the market by the balls. Senator John Sherman preemptively rolls in his grave. [[Look in yet another direction]]

In yet another direction, there is an angry Frenchman charging towards you, sword in the air. Ah, a kindly local who can guide you through this compassionate and fair place, 14th century France. "Avez-vous volé mon fromage?! Je pense que tu as volé mon fromage! Hérétique!" Your arms and legs are lopped off and you are left to die. You die. Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

She glares at you. "First off, I'm not homeless, I'm just...uhhh...living in a few different places right now. Second, no. Do not call the police. They'll take me back to her again. They don't believe me. Why does no listen? I thought you believed me! I'm not going back to her, alright? I'm not." She stands and gathers her things, knocking over her soda in her frenzy. "DAMN IT." The soda soaks what's left of your burger and ice cubes spill onto the floor. One of the restaurant employees comes over with a dustpan and some napkins and helps Connie--now thoroughly embarrassed--clean everything up. [["I'm sorry. I didn't realize you had tried that already."]] [["The government is much better equipped to handle these situations than you or I. I'm sure if there is a case against your mother, they will hear you out."]]

Connie slings her backpack over her shoulder and sits down. "Sorry, I... Sorry. You're only trying to help and I'm really thankful for that. The food's been great. Calling the police made sense to me, too. They're supposed to know how to handle this stuff. But they don't." "Sometimes things don't work out how they should. They should know what to do. Your mother should treat you better. It's not fair." "Yeah, I know that." "I'm just... Sorry, I guess what I mean is that you shouldn't have to figure this stuff out at your age. I wouldn't know handle this at your age. My parents were good to me. My dad drinks too much, but nothing to make me leave. You're brave to be where you are. I'm listening and I believe you." You pause for a moment, [[think about a poster you saw in your high school]].

Connie puts her backpack on. "I'm not gonna do twice what failed the first time. Thanks for the food." She leaves. [[Run after her]]

You throw away your trash and bolt outside after her. The silhouettes of the piles and piles of punk rock t-shirts that afflict this curious area are haloed by the setting sun. There are too many places for her to hide. You can't find her. It will never be possible to help everyone. Go to [[the bus station]].

"From the station down the road, it's usually $111. $165 on weekends." You have enough to cover that. [[Pay for her bus ticket]] [[Decline to pay for her bus ticket]]

"Okay. I can do that. But hey, I can take you to a transitional living center or something myself if you don't know about your friend's parents? Nothing involving the police, just people who are good with this stuff. I don't know what your mother's done, but they'd make sure you guys stay separated." "No. No, no, no. I don't want to deal with all that. Not with--I just want to be with my friend right now. I'm not so far down my list of options that I need that yet. Thank you." "Okay." You pay the bill at the restaurant and [[walk with her to the bus station]].

"Oh, yikes. I don't think I can swing that. Sorry." It wouldn't bankrupt you, but that's a lot of money to hand a stranger. "Oh, okay. Well, still thanks for the meal and talking to me. I haven't had a decent conversation in...in a while. It was 1-800-RUNAWAY, right? I'll remember that." You pay the bill and part ways with her, wishing her luck. She walks back down the road, kicking at the rocks on the ground. You walk the rest of the way to [[the bus station]].

"There are other resources. You can call this number, if I remember it right, 1-800-RUNAWAY. I think they're more used to this kind of thing. Sometimes cops just want to get the job done the quickest way they can and they ignore whether what they come up with is really the most peaceful solution. But these guys will listen..." [["...How much is that bus ticket?"]]

The snake your father beat left behind a wife and seventy children at the beginning of a particularly humid, particularly hot summer. For a garter snake, seventy children is a massive litter. To complicate matters further, the mother died giving birth. The children, starved, ate her remains and the sorrow of losing her mate in such a violent fashion transferred to them. Last summer you had enjoyed the proliferation of frogs in the pond near your house. This summer, the snakes did. They feasted and grew strong, each making sure the other was taken care of. None of the seventy would die that summer, though several would die [[that fall]].

In your years of service, there are thousands that come against you. They are those that no other branch of the military can defeat, pure-bred monsters ready to end the world. In your years of service, there are only a handful that impress you. The rest you squash or, to borrow a word from Amy, exterminate. You go home and drink scotch and count your Prada paper clips. You are mankind's greatest military achievement. Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

{ <script> load('Media/visor.png'); load('Media/gymnastic.png'); load('Media/smoothie.gif'); load('Media/fourteen.png'); </script> }You pass a room where a man sits inside an octagon where he is being served a five-course meal by raccoons with tiny luchador masks. You pass a room that is empty except for the head of a mannequin on the floor. On her neck, a nametag indicates her name is Molly. You pass a room filled floor to ceiling with blank white t-shirts. There's not even space to walk in. You pass a room with seventeen distinctly different perpetual motion machines. You pass a barbershop. You wonder why in the world Doctor McRee would need a barbershop here. [[Turn the corner]]

You look around at a rose-tinted world. You look at the rubble of the building--mostly concrete but also some smashed computers, some beat up file cabinets--and it takes your breath away. In terms of the building itself, this is an embodiment of the fragility of human achievement, but in terms of the building's purpose, this is a forced forgiveness of so many debts, the beginning of so many second chances. To think that such dynamic beauty could arise from destruction. [[You lay on the ground]]

"This is a battle of whatever I want it to be. Just consider the bat an accessory," you say, swinging again. "And if snakeskin has one weakness, it's a baseball bat." The snakeskin jacket rips. "I had that imported direct!" Amy throws a punch, but misses. You swing and hit her in the head. Her limited-edition Queen of Hearts sunglasses from Dolce & Gabbana crack and fracture out onto the concrete. She goes limp. The bat rushes down and down and down again. You yell and grunt, but you feel desolate. You only do this because you have to. To protect yourself. To avenge your father--or at least emulate him. In another life, another outfit, she might not have to die. But this time, Amy dies. She is a mess of green and yellow and red. [[Bury Amy and take her place in the military]] [[Become a fugitive of the United States of America]]

It's clear he has a lot of work to do on his delivery. While he's disappointed that you don't laugh, he decides that you're still worth watching as your life fades away. In the end, he's glad he stuck around. He feels...kindled. It's not that he's malicious, he just likes having new experiences. You will never have experiences of any kind ever again. He waves goodbye. You don't wave back. This is very impolite. Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

"I AM NOT A CROOK!!!" he howls, his screams frightening those in the other, unrelated situation where there were screams before. You were only kidding about being crooks, so while he rips your face off piece by piece, it does occur to you that this reaction may be a bit rash. Was Richard Nixon always this rash? As you are dismembered, [[you don't remember]].

As your soul floats aimlessly, you look over at your body and watch Richard Nixon meditate for half an hour beside your corpse before seeking out a river to wash off the blood. He chants "Mesothelioma patients CALL NOW! Mesothelioma patients CALL NOW!" and scrubs away the one dark deed that he, your everlasting hero Richard Nixon, has ever done. As he washes his tantalizing tendons, you float above your body, noticing for the first time that the birth mark on your calf resembles a formless blob. Would you like to (link: "try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]

Feet now out of the muck, you wipe as much of the pink goo off your sick new Jordans as you can. You'll have to give them a deep cleaning later, but you are grateful you could save them. The blank faced creature has morphed into a sentient puddle which is staining the good chair your dad always sat in when he played hopscotch. You [[shoo away]] the cockroaches feeding at the edge of the puddle and they leave, albeit staggering and singing more than usual.

(if: $deborah is 1)[Those lips are covered in Maybelline lipstick and they're GOD DAMN PERFECT, but you know Richard Nixon would never wear makeup tested on animals. NEVER. Hell, further than that, you learned in the fourth grade that Richard Nixon is a strictly Anastasia Beverly Hills man. "A golden ratio for a golden god!" he would say to himself every morning as he contoured. His beauty routine was the whole second half of social studies! "I get it," you say, "everybody wants to flaunt that big nose, to swagger with that sweet Watergate voodoo magic. You do it well. Believe me. On a better day, I'd stick around anyway, maybe we could rustle up some affirmative action of our own. But today I'm only down with the genuine red hunter. So [[goodbye, fake Richard Nixon|goodbyefake]]."](else:)[Those lips are covered in Maybelline lipstick, but you know Richard Nixon would never wear makeup tested on animals. NEVER. Hell, further than that, you learned in the fourth grade that Richard Nixon is a strictly Anastasia Beverly Hills man. "A golden ratio for a golden god!" he would say to himself every morning as he contoured. His beauty routine was the whole second half of social studies! "I get it," you say, "everybody wants to flaunt that big nose, to swagger with that sweet Watergate voodoo magic. You do it well. Believe me. On a better day, I'd stick around. Maybe we could get some ice cream and see a movie, but I've had enough of the red hunter for today. So [[goodbye, fake Richard Nixon|goodbyefake]]. Maybe think about having a makeup routine that doesn't hurt animals."]

{ <script> if (x != -70){x = 70}; spin('Media/music/outdoor2.mp3'); </script> }Fake Richard Nixon nods, understanding. He's sad--no, he's miserable--but one can only move forward. Fake Richard Nixon boards a helicopter waiting nearby and ascends. The helicopter rises until it is consumed by the sun or otherwise out of your vision. You [[stop looking directly at the sun]].

You don't even reply to her, you just walk out of the room. This day is weird. How did you get to this point? Therapy? What's happening? Your mother was wrong to connect you with someone like that. You walk down the street away from her office, angry that you wasted your time. It's cold outside. You don't know where you're walking, but you have to walk. You think there's something better you could be doing with your time. It's difficult to recognize when you need help, so you choose not to recognize it, even though it's okay for you to do so. Maybe this is an obstacle you will be able to pass in the future. Even small steps are big ones when you're depressed. (link: "Try again?")[(load-game: "GameStart")]