by Phil Edwards
To continue your journey, tap here.
You bring a poodle for Cacao to pet, and she does so unwillingly. You post the picture and watch the likes roll in.
“Three likes!” you say. “Not bad.”
Cacao stares glumly and types.
“Not many likes. Cacao’s piece about the evolution of NATO got mentioned in New York Times.”
“OK, Cacao, I don’t know who Nato is, but you have to forget about him and focus. We need more likes.”
Cacao doesn’t look happy. She types.
“Do not push Cacao. Cacao knows how to get more likes.”
“Then do it, you idiotic ape!”
Cacao beats her mighty chest and you start to think you’ve made a mistake. Suddenly, she launches the poodle in the air, along with a banana. Then she picks you up by the heel and catapults you toward the ceiling.
You realize what’s happening—Cacao is juggling. She keeps it up for a while, but she hasn’t had much practice. You’re the first item to be dropped, and since she threw you 30 feet in the air, you don’t get up again.
The lab mortician has to scrape you off the floor. But he notes that Cacao’s juggling pic did get 26 likes, which isn’t bad.
THE END
You pull Cacao aside and smile.
“Cacao, I’ve got a real humdinger for you. That’s human talk for a funny joke.”
Cacao waits.
“Cacao, why do bananas wear suntan lotion? Because they peel! Type it in and watch the internet fame roll in, baby. Sorry, should I not have called you baby? I don’t interact with many gorillae.”
Cacao types.
“Your joke is a little hacky. Plus, the plural of gorilla is gorillas, not gorillae.”
You grab Cacao by the fur.
“Just type the joke you dumb gorilla.”
Cacao does as you say.
The first comment is a frowny face.
“Just give it a chance,” you plead with the ape.
The second comment appears: Lammmme.
It turns out Cacao is more sensitive about her internet popularity than you realized. She kills you instantly, though the death is painless enough.
When the lab mortician comes in to clean up your body, he reads Cacao’s screen. She’s typed another joke.
What do you call a good scientist?
He gets to the punch line.
Dead.
Slowly, it registers.
“Cacao, that’s a darn good joke!”
THE END
Cacao seems a little dumb, so you try to keep it simple.
“We need you to do something funny. Really funny.”
Cacao nods like she understands, but instead of slipping on a banana peel or making a funny noise, she gets to work at her computer.
Weeks later, you return to find her large finger hovering over the Upload button. You stop her.
“Cacao, wait. What’s your funny video? Did you go to the bathroom on something?”
Cacao types.
“Cacao reedited clips from The Seventh Seal to make it seem like romantic comedy. Juxtaposition of genres is humorous.”
You try to break it to her gently.
“Cacao, that idea stinks. Do you need a banana peel or something?”
Cacao doesn’t respond well to constructive criticism. She throws you out of the lab window and, too late, you realize that her room overhangs the lab’s stock of poisonous hedges.
The lab mortician finds you days later, after the press tour for Cacao’s viral video hit is over.
“Too bad,” the mortician says. “The hedge wounds were bad, but not fatal. But then, for some reason, this scientist started eating hundreds of poisonous berries.”
You’ll never be hungry again.
THE END
You’re nervous to ask Cacao to vlog, but she seems open to the idea—surprisingly open.
“Cacao loves self-expression,” she types. “You offer true vehicle to expand Cacao’s audience.”
“Yeah sure, whatever.”
“But Cacao needs you,” she types. “Cacao needs your human voice.”
You agree to team up with Cacao and help her vlog—she’ll provide the script, editing, and acting, and you’ll be the voice of the great ape.
You’re immediately surprised by how prolific Cacao is. She churns out countless videos about accessible topics: What Parents Don’t Understand; My Parents Are So Weird; and Parents: Yuck Ugh Ew. And you have to admit that you make a good team. Though Cacao occasionally gets upset when you ad-lib—she says your line, “Me gorilla, me stupid,” doesn’t fit with the rest of the video’s tone—overall, it’s a seamless partnership.
You become viral video hits, logging millions of views and making fives of dollars. Soon, the morning shows come calling. Fame is intoxicating, as is the free cough syrup they have in the green room.
After just a few months, a Las Vegas promoter calls. He wants you and Cacao to run a permanent show at the venue! You’ll get to encourage destructive life choices like heavy drinking and gambling!
You spend years performing with Cacao, years you’ll never get back. One day, your assistant knocks on the door.
“Former scientist, you have a visitor.”
You snort some baking soda.
“If it’s Bernie, tell him the buffet clause in my contract is non-negotiable.”
Then you look up and begin to weep.
It’s Beatram. He looks a little older and a little more worn, but it’s him. And suddenly, you realize what you’ve become—a velour-wearing, baking soda-addicted monster.
Cacao knocks because it’s show time, but when she sees you together with your beloved beaker sponge, she knows to leave. You turn to Beatram.
“I didn’t know if you were alive. I had to move on.”
Beatram is silent.
“Baby, I know I’ve changed. But we all put on weight. And the baking soda—I can quit. I can quit. I did it all for you!”
Beatram stares.
“But baby,” you cry, “I was gonna come back. I was gonna come...”
You clutch your chest—the old ticker is finally going, and you’ve hurt the sponge you love the most.
The next morning, the casino mortician finds your body.
“Heart attack. Well, that’s a lot less disgusting than the stuff I normally see around here!”
THE END
It may not be the smart thing. But you have a feeling it’s the right thing. You raise the wall.
The vinegar rushes into the baking soda room and you finally realize how massive both reserves are. The fizz and foam breaks down the doors instantly, and you see everyone you know riding on the waves: the vaguely European scientist, some poodles, two good looking twins, an evil looking man with oddly compelling eyes, and many more. But someone else is missing.
The flood of baking soda and vinegar—also known as volcano juice—carries you to the highway.
“Algeria!” you shout. “Where are you, Algeria?”
You wander through the wreckage, searching for the revolutionary mouse. A few minutes later, you hear the sound of tiny feet in a puddle.
“Mon ami,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “I found the serum. But my vocal simulator is damaged. It may be—”
His voice cuts off. Now he’s just like any other mouse with superintelligence and a beret. But he’s pulling something behind him, and he hands it to you.
“Beatram!” you cry. “You found Beatram!”
Algeria squeaks once more.
“Viva the revolution!” you shout.
The tiny mouse scurries into the foam and you hold your beloved sponge, wet with volcano juice, close to your shaking chest.
THE END
You decide not to trust the genius talking mouse, despite his beret. You hit the alarm and Algeria closes his eyes.
“I would kill you,” he says, his accent stronger than ever. “But you deserve to suffer living with what you’ve done.”
&
nbsp; The mouse flees and you’re left alone with the shrieking alarm. Security finds and arrests you and, surprisingly, they don’t believe you when you tell them that it was the talking mouse’s fault.
You’re banned from the laboratory for life, and you find it hard to scrape by in a world where people want employees to be competent. For a while, you hold down a job as a dog washer, but after you call too many dogs “Beaker,” they let you go.
You never do reunite with Beatram, the beaker sponge you once called your friend. You die twelve years later, when the Fake Science Labs accidentally puts baking soda and vinegar in your water pipes and your entire apartment explodes.
The mortician visits your home, but he can’t find your body amidst the volcano juice.
“It’s sad,” he tells his wife later that night. “They said that scientist was one of the best beaker cleaners in the world. Now, there’s just a spot on the rug.”
THE END
“No!” you scream as you throw up your hands. “Explosive poison is terrible for my complexion!”
You block the poison—but too late, you realize how you did it.
Beatram shakes. He’s absorbed all of the explosive poison. You squeeze him.
“You can make it. You can make it buddy!”
Beatram explodes.
You collapse to the floor, your face covered in sponge viscera.
“Give me the rest,” you cry to Cothree.
“Don’t you want to stop my horrific plan?”
“What’s the point of living?”
Cothree gives you the rest of the poison and you swallow it all. At first, it’s hard to tell if you’ll explode or be poisoned, but you faint before you can find out.
Cothree calls the lab mortician immediately after you die.
“I tried to help this poor scientist,” the evil Cothree says, “but I was too late.”
“Wow,” the mortician says. “The poison was definitely explosive. But why are there pieces of sponge in the guts pile?”
Cothree shrugs.
“Maybe from eating a sponge? I don’t know, that scientist was pretty dumb.”
“Case closed!” the mortician shouts, and he and Cothree high-five.
THE END
“Not this time, you oddly compelling jerk!”
You launch yourself at Cothree, Beatram leading the charge as you thrust your right hand forward. Cothree’s caught off-guard and ends up with a mouthful of sponge. You take what remains of the explosive poison and pour it on Cothree. His compelling eyes shut.
“We’re not done, Beatram.” You embrace your faithful sponge. “We’re going to make things right.”
You can’t leave the lab without destroying the system that Cothree has put in place. No lab should profit from volcanoes—that’s part of the scientist’s code that you just made up.
You run into the hallway and look around—there has to be some science somewhere, but you don’t see any options. You start opening doors at random, but all your find are some poodles, a movie set, an uninviting inter-dimensional portal, and some overly enthusiastic twins.
This is bigger than you or Beatram. You turn to your faithful sponge.
“The question is, what do we do now, old chum?”
Beatram suggests something you never even considered.
“I guess we could clean beakers,” you reply. “But what about stopping the lab’s plan?”
Beatram considers it, and he has a point.
“True,” you say. “We are best at cleaning beakers. But how can we use that skill to save the lab, nay, the world?”
Beatram doesn’t understand.
“No, not neigh like a horse,” you tell him. “Nay like no. I learned it from that guy we just killed. But what do you think we should do? I think we need to fight.”
Beatram still doesn’t agree.
“But Beatram,” you protest, “I protest. How will cleaning beakers help us? We need to get out the big guns and fight.”
Beatram hardens in response.
“Yes,” you say, “of course I trust you. But I just don’t understand your plan.”
You return to the room where you first began this long journey, and an alarm goes off instantly. Beatram still wants to clean.
It’s taking too long, and you know from experience that you and your beloved beaker sponge could end up arguing all night. It’s time to make a decision.
Will you try to fight the lab and take it down through sheer force? Or will you take Beatram’s advice and go back to cleaning beakers?
To take out the lab through any means necessary, tap here.
To clean beakers with Beatram, tap here.
You decide, like all great heroes, to make a run for it.
You spend the first 20 feet trying to remember if the T-rex can see you when you move or stand still, but since you can’t remember, you try both.
After quickly moving and not-moving for a few feet, you get into a serious rhythm. You begin to dance away from the growling beast.
As you feel its warm breath on your neck, you can’t help but think you should start a career as a professional background dancer. You have the goods to make it work, and you can do it under pressure! With these rhythms and your ability to learn choreography while maintaining your own sense of self-expression, you’d make an exciting part of any traveling dance group.
The T-rex eats you.
The lab mortician is eaten by the T-rex as well, so he never does find your body. However, when the Guinness Book of Records reviews the videotape of your death a few years later, they name you the first person to be eaten while doing the Electric Slide.
THE END
Taming a Tyrannosaurus rex seems absurd, but you don’t have much other choice. You have to approach it carefully—the beast has never been tamed by a human, so only the most precise and careful technique will allow you to survive.
You hop onto its back and shout “Giddy-up!” into its ear holes.
At first, the great animal tries to buck you off, at least when it isn’t eating other random humans. But that gives you time to fashion an elaborate system of ferns that you weave into reins, a saddle, and a very nice pair of pants.
Slowly, the T-rex bends to your will, feeling the pull of your fern reins upon his great neck. It turns out that it’s kind of easy to train such a stupid animal. After a few minutes, you name him.
“Fido, if you dare buck me again, I shall inflict great pain upon you.”
He whimpers.
“Good, Fido. Always obey me, your incredibly intelligent and inedible master.”
Fido lets you off his back during his periodic human-eating breaks.
He nods his mighty head, sending your entire body up and down with it. Now you have to guide Fido somewhere else. At first, he tramples over a few more small buildings and indistinct humans, but then you reach a clearing in the Cretaceous Amusement Area where it’s possible to see the whole lab and the vast industrial wasteland that lies just beyond the suburbs.
“One day, Fido, all of this shall be yours.”
Fido roars, but you hit your forehead.
“I just realized I gave you a name people use for dogs. What do you think about Rover instead?”
He shakes his head and roars again.
“Fido it is. But now we have to figure out what to do.”
Fido is a faithful companion, except for his refusal to stop eating humans.
“It’s like the old saying,” you note. “Well, I’m sure there’s an old saying somewhere. Anyway, we have more important things to do than going through a quote book.”
Fido makes a whimper that you can only interpret as, “Tell me more, intelligent and physically-attractive master.”
“You’re one of the best dinosaurs I’ve ever tamed and ridden, old chum, but I have a friend who is even closer to me than you. His name is Beatram, he’s a beaker sponge, and we have to save him.”
Fido rushes toward the large network of buildings, but you
pull hard on his ferny reins.
“Whoa boy. I’m not sure of the right approach. Do you think we should destroy the lab and find Beatram that way? Or should we scare everyone out and ask them to give us back our beloved sponge?”
Fido still proves to be rather dumb, since all he does is roar. This is a decision you’ll have to make yourself.
To stomp the lab with extreme force, tap here.
To threaten the employees, tap here.
You pet the cat nearest to you and smile cruelly.
“Get in the box, you fools.” Your voice is gravelly and an octave deeper (because you have a severe cat allergy). “Get in the bloody box.”
Devin sighs as you furiously rub your eyes.
“Are you an Oliver Twist character now?”
“Guv'nah, do as I bloody say!”
Emma climbs in the box.
“What are you going to do to us?”
“I’m goin’ ta’ bloody off you blokes!”
“OK,” Devin says, “anything to stop that accent. But would you do us a favor first?”
You consider it—it doesn’t seem like a good idea to do a favor for the people you’re about to kill, but you want them to still like you.
“I’ll grant you one bloody favor, you Guv'nahs. I like figgy pudding.”
Devin hands you a beaker.
“My sister and I are really into soda, so we made this. It has lots of sugar in it and tastes like candy. And guess what? We’re serving it in a beaker.”
You stop rubbing your eyes and open them. It’s hard to see anything at the moment, but you’re no fool: sugar is hard to pass up, and candy is even better. The fact that it’s in a beaker sweetens the deal—maybe literally.
“Is the beaker made of sugar, Guv'nah?”
“What? Why?”
“I need to check if it sweetens the deal...literally.”
“Oh just kill us,” Emma says. “Let’s not even bother.”
“Yes!” Devin shouts over her. “It’s made of sugar.”
You cackle, mad with power, your eyes, mouth and nostrils filled with powerful cat hair.
“Give me the bloody beaker!”
Devin hands the beaker to you, and though you can’t see its label or contents, you happily slurp. But something’s wrong—the sugar flavoring is too subtle. You collapse on a pile of cats.
