“Please, come inside; let me make you breakfast. You’ve earned it.”
You’re not sure how getting drugged up and slaughtering a coyote has done it, exactly, but it’s clear: Mom has stopped hating you. She might even love you.
• • •
All day the entire family treats you like some sort of hero. Mom insists that you pick the Christmas meal. Dad gives you a crossbow he claims has been in his family for generations “as an early Christmas gift,” and Lindsi has never looked at you more adoringly.
You could get used to this.
After an evening around the fire where every one of your jokes seems to land, you stretch, yawn, and head for the basement door.
“I should get some rest; I was up early this morning,” you say, giving Mom a meaningful look. “Thank you so much for a lovely day.”
“Our pleasure,” Mom says, smiling warmly. “But where are you going?”
“Uh.” You’re not sure what she’s getting at. “The basement? I assumed I’d be sleeping there the entire—”
“No, no, no,” Mom shakes her head, smiling indulgently. “That’s ridiculous. A man like you can’t sleep in the basement, like the hired help.”
“A man like…?”
“A man with your instincts and natural dominance should be sleeping in a place of honor. With my daughter.”
Lindsi looks at you eagerly. You can almost smell the horniness coming off her.
“Well done, Killer,” Mom says as the two of you climb the stairs. “Welcome to the family.”
You’re going to have to make it seem like you’re interested in that offer, at least until you’re out of range of all those crossbows…
The End.
“I was, uh, stepping outside for…some air? And I found this coyote.”
“You…found it?”
“Yeah, I saw something dark against the snow,” you’re warming to your story now, “and I wanted to see what it was, and then you came out.”
“Mmm.” Mom’s walked up beside you. “Apparently after you vomited on it.”
“Oh, yeah. I…ate a lot of Combos on the drive. They must have upset my stomach.”
“Mmmm.” Mom’s obviously disgusted, though it doesn’t seem like the vomit’s the issue. She stares at you, lip curling upward, until you feel almost obligated to speak.
“Is something wrong?”
“Not necessarily.” She sighs heavily. “It’s just that in this house we have a hunting tradition.”
You nod, trying to look not-that-terrified. You’re suddenly very, very happy you never told Lindsi about that time you fainted in biology after watching that video about dissection.
“Of course, I don’t use that term lightly. Tradition means following the ways of our forebears. It means traditional tracking techniques. And traditional weaponry.”
“That seems more fair,” you say, trying to add anything to this baffling monologue.
“YES. Yes.” She nods vigorously. “Exactly. Guns are for the weak.”
“I’ve always said that,” you lie. You don’t even have an opinion on gun control.
“Would you be open to something like that?” Her eyes look momentarily less judgy. “To bond with the men in our family?”
“Something like…”
“A traditional hunt with the men? Or maybe on your own?”
Visions of impaling your foot with a crossbow flutter across your mind. You’re pretty sure it’s not the Ambien anymore.
* * *
Yup. It’s the only way. Go HERE.
No, that’s barbaric. Go HERE.
He takes another step toward you. You shriek and grab the table lamp near the bed. Adrenaline pounding through your veins, you run toward him and swing as hard as you can.
The lamp connects with his head. In the dim light, you see a look of pure shock cross his face before he collapses to the floor, out cold.
Huh. You always figured yourself for a “flight” guy.
Once you can breathe normally again, you grab your phone and call 911. They can deal with this monster. The operator says an ambulance will be by shortly. Just as it pulls up, the trucker starts to come to.
“What…what happened?”
“This man attacked me,” you say to the officers walking through the door. “I had to defend myself.”
You hear a sob from the lump on the ground.
“I didn’t attack you!” He grips his head, weeping louder.
“You broke into my room in the middle of the night.”
“Because I needed your help.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“I have diabetes.” He coughs. “You’d bought out the vending machine and my blood sugar was low. When I knocked, the door just came open on its own.”
“Well…why are you wearing that?” You gesture at the bathrobe that’s fallen open, revealing a giant-sized diaper. “That’s some kind of weird fetish thing; what was I supposed to think?”
“This? It’s for incontinence.” He weeps louder. “It’s a side effect of—of—of…my diseeeeeeeease.”
One of the cops shakes his head in disgust.
“My sister has diabetes. How could you be so intolerant?”
“Oh, come on, what would you think if this guy broke into your room?”
The cop steps over. “Please extend your hands, sir.”
“What?”
“We have to keep you in county until this man decides whether to press charges.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Are you resisting?”
You stick out your hands.
• • •
The first hour isn’t so bad.
Then the eggnog drunk shows up and promptly destroys the toilet in the corner of the holding cell.
Good thing you went at the motel.
An hour later they bring in a man who’s totally naked except for penny loafers and reindeer antlers.
“Merry…Crizz.…mahhh—” he says to you, then promptly vomits all over his own feet. For reasons you can’t even begin to fathom, the puddle is red and green.
You wonder if Lindsi will believe you hit a tree…
The End.
You shrink as far back into the bed as you can manage. Maybe if you appear infinitesimally tiny he won’t hurt you as badly.
You feel his weight at the other end of the bed. Here it comes.
He starts to wail.
“WAAAA! Baby wants a ba-ba!”
You open your eyes. He’s lying at the foot of the bed, all four limbs waving in the air. He’s removed the robe and hat. Beneath the first is the largest diaper you’ve ever seen; beneath the second is a giant, lacy bonnet.
“Baby’s BORED!”
He gets louder.
“You want me to…”
“Give baby toys! Give baby ba-ba!”
“Okay, I don’t have a, uh, ‘ba-ba,’ but I have a big kid cup.” You tiptoe around the bottom of the bed, giving him as wide a berth as the room will allow. He calms slightly. You cross to the sink and fill a filmy plastic glass with murky water. “Can you drink like a big boy?”
“Okaaaayyyyyyy.”
You hand him the cup. He promptly spills it everywhere. He turns to you, lip trembling.
“Oh, uh…whoopsie-daisy,” you say. He giggles maniacally, biting on his fist.
“AGAIN! AGAIN!”
“Whoopsie-daisy.”
“HEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!”
You grit your teeth. It’s better than getting raped. Remember that.
• • •
After an hour, he stands, puts his robe and hat on, nods, and leaves.
You wedge a chair beneath the doorknob but you barely sleep.
There’s no way you can face Lindsi after tonight. It’ll show on you somehow. It will be a funny story in a few weeks, maybe. Or a few years. But right now? You need to get home, shower for a year, and make sure every lock is secure.
As soon as it’s light you pack up. On your
way out the door you notice something on the dresser.
It’s a wad of crumpled twenties.
It makes the idea of telling people about last night even harder to imagine.
And it begs the question…where was he keeping these?
You grab them gingerly and stuff them in your pocket. Just call it babysitting money.
The End.
As soon as you hit the highway traffic is at a standstill. You should have expected it—it’s Christmas Eve day, and you’re in prime “Grandma lives a few hours from here” territory.
Still, it’s maddening. At least you have the Combos. You know it’s gross to be eating so many—are you on your tenth bag now, or your thirteenth?—but they taste so good.
Several hours later you pull into Lindsi’s parents’ driveway. You walk into the kitchen to see her entire family sitting tensely around the table, staring at you.
Why do they all look so angry?
“Merry Christmas,” you say hesitantly.
“This is my family,” Lindsi says curtly, introducing you to everyone in turn. “Now, are you ready to go?”
“Go?”
“We’ve been waiting for the last few hours so you wouldn’t be alone when you arrived. We thought we’d bring you caroling, then for dinner at Aunt Lori’s.”
“Oh, dinner would be—”
“It’s too late for that now.” Lindsi’s mother’s smile is tighter than her terrible perm. Clearly you’re already making a great impression. “At least we haven’t missed mass yet,” she adds, raising an eyebrow like a challenge.
Ugh. You hate church. Though possibly not as much as Lindsi’s mother clearly already hates you…
* * *
If you want to go to mass, despite the fact that you’re an atheist and feel like seven kinds of shit, go HERE.
If you want to beg off and tell them to go on without you, go HERE.
The only way out of this is to go way, way deeper.
You have to full-on shit your pants. After all, what adult human would deliberately do that? The VanWhittingtons may hate you afterward, but they’ll be sympathetic. Or at least fear you.
You figure it might be difficult to shit your pants in public—everything in you wants that to never happen—but as soon as you push out a little of the Combos foulness you’ve been holding back, it becomes a torrent. Half farts, half bubbling wet shit, you can tell this will be a doozy.
“Oh god,” you say to Lindsi, wincing in pain for effect. “I’m so sorry—I think I have food poisoning.” You hang your head. “Please, let me out, I’m so sorry.”
She turns to you, briefly confused, then edges backward, face tight with horror.
You shamble down the aisle, shit dripping from your ankle, too horrified to look at anyone. You hear the sound of someone retching a few pews up, near the site of the devastation. Someone else joins in. You turn once, as you’re pushing through the doors of the chapel. The scene is horrific—dozens of people are leaning into the aisles, vomiting profusely. A child is shrieking somewhere. In the middle of the church you see a man frozen in horror, vomit dripping down the front of his sweater and khakis, everyone around him bent double.
You hurry to the bathroom.
The only option is to abandon your pants…and underwear, and socks. You scrub the shoes a few times, then put them back on, feet squelching ominously.
Now what?
You head into a stall and grab a roll of toilet paper, wrapping it around and around yourself to cover your nakedness.
Not gonna keep anyone from knowing who Pants-Shitter Zero was, though.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
You squeeze over Lindsi and Lars and hurry down the aisle, ignoring the frowns and wrinkled noses in your wake.
You try to keep your butt cheeks as together as possible, but it takes about ten minutes of wandering the halls before you find a bathroom.
By the time you get there, you know things have gotten much, much worse.
You step into a stall, fully remove your pants, and hang them over the door.
Now for the moment of truth.
You peel away your underwear.
Dear god, the smell was already bad, but now it’s absolutely cataclysmic. The entire bathroom is filled with the curiously processed smell of digested Combos. You glance down at the underwear.
The entire back is coated with a layer of slick, oily, bright orange shit.
You step out of them, wrapping your hand in a few squares of toilet paper to pick them up. Fortunately, church toilets are superpowered—the olds must have even more serious issues than you do—and the offending underwear easily flushes away.
You clean up as best you can, carefully pressing your ear to the stall door before dashing to the sink to make toilet paper wet wipes. Your balls flap into the shart residue, forcing you to repeat the process. Finally, however, you manage to clean yourself fully.
But now you have no underwear.
And you’re not sure the Combos sharts are done with you.
* * *
If you want to take your chances and go freeball, go HERE.
If you want to fashion some toilet paper underwear for pants protection, go HERE.
It will have to dissipate soon, right? That’s just the law of farts.
But with each passing second, the foul, rancid odor seems to get stronger, as though more and more poo-lecules are working their way out of your pants.
And of course Combos sharts smell particularly horrific. The chemical element adds a specific, painful tang to the befouled air.
Lindsi leans in to whisper in your ear.
“What’s that smell—oh—” She chokes slightly. “It’s even worse by you.” She gags a little.
“I don’t smell anything.”
She frowns, her eyes watering.
“How can you—ohmahgahd GROSS.”
She vomits at your feet.
A lot.
A tiny, shrunken woman with a bird’s nest of white curls turns at the sound, gasps, covers her mouth, then vomits all over the pew she’s standing in.
The person next to her vomits seconds later.
Soon it’s passing through the entire church, like a holy wave of puke.
Somehow you manage not to join in.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
Brad walks up and gives you a high five.
It lands perfectly.
SMACK!
It’s clear you’re now the envy of the party.
“You’re right, Brad! That picture will be the perfect Holidaygram.”
He grins and taps at his phone. Too late to turn back now.
But it doesn’t matter, not if Brad thinks it’ll be funny. There’s no reason to worry. It was just a laugh. Besides, what are the chances Lindsi will see it? Slim, right? She barely knows Brad.
You set out to enjoy the rest of the party, which is pretty easy, since Brad’s absorbed you into his entourage. He even introduces you to the cool-looking black dude at the bar!
By the time you’re ready to head home, you’re pretty drunk. Who knew Brad’s beer pong skills were so razor sharp? Who knew people your age still played beer pong?
As you stumble into the street, your phone rings.
You drunkenly fumble it out of your coat pocket.
“Hello?”
“Oh, good. You’re answering.”
It’s Lindsi. And for whatever reason, she sounds absolutely livid.
“Hey Linzzzzzz,” you slur.
“I thought you were staying home to ‘get some work done.’”
“Huh?”
“I saw that photo. You and that…slut making out.”
You sincerely doubt Sad Sack is a slut, but now’s probably not the best time to come to her rescue.
“Obviously the kiss was a joke, Linzzz. Did you see that loser? She’za complete charity case!”
You hear a sharp wail just feet behind you. You turn around.
Shit, it’s Sad Sack. She clearly heard every word you said.
“WE’RE OVER!!!” Lindsi screams into the phone.
The End.
Once the crowd settles down, you walk up to Brad.
“Hey, man, I’m sure it’s a hilarious photo, but if it’s all the same to you, could you maybe delete it? Or at least not post it online? My girlfriend would be pissed if she saw that.”
Your heart is racing. You’ve never been this assertive with someone like Brad before. You’re not even sure you and he have had a real conversation before.
“I totally understand,” he says. “It’s gone.” He actually pulls out the phone and trashes the photo on the spot. By the time the rest of the party got their phones out the kiss was over. You’re safe!
Wow, you never expected Brad to be so understanding. And easygoing. No wonder he has the reputation for being the king of cool.
“This party is getting pretty lame, right?”
“SO lame,” you instantly blurt out, still giddy from relief. Brad not only deleted the photo, but he likes you enough to shit on this party with you. Maybe you’re cooler than you thought!
“We should go do something fun. You know, somewhere else. Me, you, and Blitzer.”
Blitzer? Does he mean Wolf Blitzer? Was he invited to this party?
You know what? It doesn’t matter. Whoever Blitzer is, you’re in. You’ve never felt so chosen before.
“Totally. Cool,” you say.
“Hey, everyone!” Brad yells.
Someone turns down the music. Everyone turns to Brad, waiting to hear what he has to say.
“Thanks for the good times, but I gotta jet.”
Wow, that was pretty aggressively douchey.
But no one else seems to think so. In fact, look of disappointment is sweeping the crowd, like some sort of sorrow wave. Maybe it was cool? Brad did do it, after all.
You follow Brad and Blitzer—a tall black guy dressed like some kind of hipster catalog model—down to the street. A Porsche is parked there.
Choose Your Own Misery Page 10
