Choose Your Own Adventure
Something jars you, and you wake up. The May issue of Butt Frenzy falls from your lap, and the miniature bottle of airline tequila has drenched the area around your crotch. You catch the scent of old hobos and realize it's coming from your groin.
Around you, people are screaming. You are on an airplane, you remember. You are flying to Romania to attend a vampire-hunting conference. You have no idea where you are now, but outside the window the blanched peaks of mountains rise up like the humps of a rollercoaster.
The plane jolts again. It's tilted to the side, so that your face is pressed against the window. Those mountains are coming ever closer, are really jabbing at you now. Their peaks remind you of that time in college when you woke up and all the naked frat boys were—never mind that now. The door to the cockpit opens and a pilot runs out, screaming. His face is on fire. A small monkey claws at his neck.
Everyone is screaming except for a man in an expensive suit. He's conversing with his wristwatch. He's opened his briefcase to reveal a parachute. He kicks open the doo, grabs hold of a seat, and is buffeted by bodies as passengers are sucked into the atmosphere. He gets that parachute on and gets ready to jump.
If you go tackle the international spy, go to section 3.
If you grab the issue of Butt Frenzy and masturbate like a maniac, go to section 7.
. . .
SECTION 2
You jam buttons on the watch. The spy screams and bites your wrist but it's too late. The watch chimes and the screen turns red. CONFIRM, it says. You jab it again, hoping for teleportation.
The spy stops screaming. You fall in silence for a few moments.
Then the lasers appear in the sky.
They come down from the clouds, piercing fog and air and vapor. They train across your face and it's not until seconds later that you realize you're being dematerialized. It doesn't even hurt. Your last thought is that you never—
. . .
SECTION 3
You were never in football. The most physical sport you've played was a connect 4 tournament in junior high that devolved into a fistfight. You were forced to swallow a handful of red tokens. "Connect whore!" one of the kids yelled, and kicked you in the stomach.
But now you manage to tackle the spy. You get your arms around his shoulders and he turns to ward you off, but you're both sucked out of the plane and into the void. "Fuck!" he yells, but the rush of the air swallows his voice. He bites but you've got a firm hold, and he's starting to notice that your crotch, whish is pressed against him, is wet. He doesn't know that it's wet with tequila. . . . that is just tequila, right?
If you pull the cord on his parachute, go to section 6
If you jab mindlessly at his high-tech wristwatch, go to section 2
. . .
SECTION 4
"That's my issue of Butt Frenzy." you admit. "I actually wrote an article for it."
"Really?" he says, clearly interested.
"In the back," you say. "About plus-size thongs."
"My wife," he says, then grins and looks away. He's embarrassed. "She's a plus-size lady herself."
"Plus-size women are people too," you say.
"What are you saying?"
"That some plus-size women are beautiful too."
"Okay," he says, and punches you in the stomach. You go down like the connect 4-swilling panzy you are. "No funny shit here. Are you trying to sleep with my wife?"
"What—" you say, but he kicks you again. And he keeps kicking. Then he tackles you.
The rain of blows would continue all afternoon, but a passing Yeti has seen the two of you brawling and assumes you're making love. The Yeti has not been laid in a while, and decides to join in the fun. Unfortunately, an afternoon of Yeti love leaves you both in several pieces, scattered about the snow like the sections of a heavily used vibrator. Have you ever seen white lines in a heavily used vibrator? That's plastic stress, man. Calm the fuck down. Shit.
. . .
SECTION 5
"Butt Frenzy," he says. "Paint me polka dot."
"What's Butt Frenzy?" you ask.
"Only my employer," he says. "I've been sent to Romania to locate the finest superstitious, malnourished booty in the old Soviet Bloc."
"That's weird," you say.
"But compassionate," he says. "I consider my mission one of diplomacy."
And he's right. Something breaks in your proud brain and you know he's right. And then you realize that you could love a man like this. You could cook him pancakes, and ground squirrel, and you could dress up like a naughty mailman for him.
"I could dress up like a naughty mailman for you," you say.
He grins. "I've got a special delivery," he says, "of 42 orgasms!"
The two of you set to building a hut out of old petrified wood and debris from the crashed airplane. You melt snow for water, and eat passing creatures for breakfast. In time you get used to living in solitude on a patch of frozen rock. You sleep in a bed made of old airline chairs and meditate in a lean-to made of cockpit doors. You're really calm and satisfied for once in your life. And then a Yeti stumbles into your home and tears you both limb from limb. Which you deserve. Perverts.
. . .
SECTION 6
Silky cloth billows out of the chute and clocks you like a drunken brawler. Your head snaps back but not far enough to crack your spine and end this miserable existence. Damn, you think. Damn. Because your brother is still living on your couch back home, has taken to urinating all over the bathroom when he's drunk or high or buzzed on caffeine. And you can't confront him. You just can't . . .
The chute slows your fall and you and the spy drift toward the mountain ridge. This is the Alps , by the way. You idiot. But for some reason the snow is not too deep. You and the spy land on a flat place in the rock, stand ankle deep in snow.
"Well—" he says, but then the issue of Butt Frenzy falls into the snow at his feet. It was sucked from the plane too.
"Ooh—"
"Butt Frenzy!" he says. "I'm more of a Garter Madness man myself, but—"
If you claim the magazine as your own, go to Section 4
If you whistle and look away, go to Section 5
. . .
SECTION 7
Only a selfish, troubled individual would spend his last minutes alive with a dirty magazine. When the plane finally charges headlong into the side of the Alps, you are engulfed in flames and thrown from the fuselage in a fuel explosion. You rocket through the sky, flaming the entire way, like a bottle rocket. Finally you crash through the roof of a primitive shack, land on a plank dinner table in the middle of a family of 7. They are shocked. They are also poor, but their fortune changes with you. You wake in a cage and spend the rest of your life being hauled from local fair to local fair, peddled to sideshow crowds as the Overcooked Man.
After something like 17 years (time has really lost all meaning for you, but your beard is now to your knees) you've turned enough tricks on the side to buy your own freedom. You step from the cage with knees shaking both from malnourishment and excitement. You make a three days' walk across the Alps. You stumble over something and assume it is a stone but it really is a seat from the old plane that brought you here. A tear comes to your eye, and then a rogue Yeti charges from the treeline. That Yeti is crazy for dismemberment. Just crazy for it.
Around you, people are screaming. You are on an airplane, you remember. You are flying to Romania to attend a vampire-hunting conference. You have no idea where you are now, but outside the window the blanched peaks of mountains rise up like the humps of a rollercoaster.
The plane jolts again. It's tilted to the side, so that your face is pressed against the window. Those mountains are coming ever closer, are really jabbing at you now. Their peaks remind you of that time in college when you woke up and all the naked frat boys were—never mind that now. The door to the cockpit opens and a pilot runs out, screaming. His face is on fire. A small monkey claws at his neck.
Everyone is screaming except for a man in an expensive suit. He's conversing with his wristwatch. He's opened his briefcase to reveal a parachute. He kicks open the doo, grabs hold of a seat, and is buffeted by bodies as passengers are sucked into the atmosphere. He gets that parachute on and gets ready to jump.
If you go tackle the international spy, go to section 3.
If you grab the issue of Butt Frenzy and masturbate like a maniac, go to section 7.
. . .
SECTION 2
You jam buttons on the watch. The spy screams and bites your wrist but it's too late. The watch chimes and the screen turns red. CONFIRM, it says. You jab it again, hoping for teleportation.
The spy stops screaming. You fall in silence for a few moments.
Then the lasers appear in the sky.
They come down from the clouds, piercing fog and air and vapor. They train across your face and it's not until seconds later that you realize you're being dematerialized. It doesn't even hurt. Your last thought is that you never—
. . .
SECTION 3
You were never in football. The most physical sport you've played was a connect 4 tournament in junior high that devolved into a fistfight. You were forced to swallow a handful of red tokens. "Connect whore!" one of the kids yelled, and kicked you in the stomach.
But now you manage to tackle the spy. You get your arms around his shoulders and he turns to ward you off, but you're both sucked out of the plane and into the void. "Fuck!" he yells, but the rush of the air swallows his voice. He bites but you've got a firm hold, and he's starting to notice that your crotch, whish is pressed against him, is wet. He doesn't know that it's wet with tequila. . . . that is just tequila, right?
If you pull the cord on his parachute, go to section 6
If you jab mindlessly at his high-tech wristwatch, go to section 2
. . .
SECTION 4
"That's my issue of Butt Frenzy." you admit. "I actually wrote an article for it."
"Really?" he says, clearly interested.
"In the back," you say. "About plus-size thongs."
"My wife," he says, then grins and looks away. He's embarrassed. "She's a plus-size lady herself."
"Plus-size women are people too," you say.
"What are you saying?"
"That some plus-size women are beautiful too."
"Okay," he says, and punches you in the stomach. You go down like the connect 4-swilling panzy you are. "No funny shit here. Are you trying to sleep with my wife?"
"What—" you say, but he kicks you again. And he keeps kicking. Then he tackles you.
The rain of blows would continue all afternoon, but a passing Yeti has seen the two of you brawling and assumes you're making love. The Yeti has not been laid in a while, and decides to join in the fun. Unfortunately, an afternoon of Yeti love leaves you both in several pieces, scattered about the snow like the sections of a heavily used vibrator. Have you ever seen white lines in a heavily used vibrator? That's plastic stress, man. Calm the fuck down. Shit.
. . .
SECTION 5
"Butt Frenzy," he says. "Paint me polka dot."
"What's Butt Frenzy?" you ask.
"Only my employer," he says. "I've been sent to Romania to locate the finest superstitious, malnourished booty in the old Soviet Bloc."
"That's weird," you say.
"But compassionate," he says. "I consider my mission one of diplomacy."
And he's right. Something breaks in your proud brain and you know he's right. And then you realize that you could love a man like this. You could cook him pancakes, and ground squirrel, and you could dress up like a naughty mailman for him.
"I could dress up like a naughty mailman for you," you say.
He grins. "I've got a special delivery," he says, "of 42 orgasms!"
The two of you set to building a hut out of old petrified wood and debris from the crashed airplane. You melt snow for water, and eat passing creatures for breakfast. In time you get used to living in solitude on a patch of frozen rock. You sleep in a bed made of old airline chairs and meditate in a lean-to made of cockpit doors. You're really calm and satisfied for once in your life. And then a Yeti stumbles into your home and tears you both limb from limb. Which you deserve. Perverts.
. . .
SECTION 6
Silky cloth billows out of the chute and clocks you like a drunken brawler. Your head snaps back but not far enough to crack your spine and end this miserable existence. Damn, you think. Damn. Because your brother is still living on your couch back home, has taken to urinating all over the bathroom when he's drunk or high or buzzed on caffeine. And you can't confront him. You just can't . . .
The chute slows your fall and you and the spy drift toward the mountain ridge. This is the Alps , by the way. You idiot. But for some reason the snow is not too deep. You and the spy land on a flat place in the rock, stand ankle deep in snow.
"Well—" he says, but then the issue of Butt Frenzy falls into the snow at his feet. It was sucked from the plane too.
"Ooh—"
"Butt Frenzy!" he says. "I'm more of a Garter Madness man myself, but—"
If you claim the magazine as your own, go to Section 4
If you whistle and look away, go to Section 5
. . .
SECTION 7
Only a selfish, troubled individual would spend his last minutes alive with a dirty magazine. When the plane finally charges headlong into the side of the Alps, you are engulfed in flames and thrown from the fuselage in a fuel explosion. You rocket through the sky, flaming the entire way, like a bottle rocket. Finally you crash through the roof of a primitive shack, land on a plank dinner table in the middle of a family of 7. They are shocked. They are also poor, but their fortune changes with you. You wake in a cage and spend the rest of your life being hauled from local fair to local fair, peddled to sideshow crowds as the Overcooked Man.
After something like 17 years (time has really lost all meaning for you, but your beard is now to your knees) you've turned enough tricks on the side to buy your own freedom. You step from the cage with knees shaking both from malnourishment and excitement. You make a three days' walk across the Alps. You stumble over something and assume it is a stone but it really is a seat from the old plane that brought you here. A tear comes to your eye, and then a rogue Yeti charges from the treeline. That Yeti is crazy for dismemberment. Just crazy for it.
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