by Phil Edwards
“You bloody Guv'nahs, what have you done to me?”
Through a blur, you can see Devin and Emma leave the box.
“Thanks for being part of our experiment,” they say at the same time. “And thanks for drinking explosive poison.”
You gasp—you can feel it taking hold.
“Twins...are...so...creepy,” you scream as you explode.
The lab mortician is called in to clean up your body.
“My wife and I are having a party Sunday night. You want to come?” he asks Devin as he sweeps up the cat hair.
“Thanks for the invite. She models, right?”
“Oh yeah,” the mortician says as he discards your entrails. “Just got a catalog thing. Still mostly sweaters.”
THE END
“I am not a vengeful ruler,” you proclaim. “I am just.”
You start sneezing a lot because of your severe cat allergy, but you have greater concerns. There’s no need to get revenge on Devin and Emma—you have an entire laboratory to save.
“Felines, assemble!”
The cats line up in front of you, ready to do your bidding, since cats are famous for their willingness to take orders from humans.
“Now we deal with Emma and Devin.”
The twins bow before you, but you wave them away (while sneezing, so a bit of mucus flies in their direction).
“I seek not your punishment, but your redemption. Did I say that right?”
The twins nod.
“Anyway,” you continue, “I want to find my beaker sponge. Beatram is somewhere in this laboratory, and you’re going to tell me how to find him.”
“And if we don’t?” Devin asks.
“Do the right thing for once. For me. For science.”
Devin turns to his sister and she nods. He begins to explain it all.
“If you hit the lab’s supply of baking soda and vinegar, you’ll stop everything. It’s where all the cash comes from, and they’ll have to give you your sponge back. Without the ability to make volcano juice, the lab is completely crippled.”
“Of course,” you say. “It makes perfect sense, if you don’t think about it too hard.”
“The question is simple,” Emma says as you rub your eyes and sneeze. “How do you take the lab out?”
“You have two options,” Devin says. “You can do it yourself, or you can send the cats to do it for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simple. You go to the vinegar room and figure out how to dump the vat onto the baking soda. Or, we train the cats to go through the air ducts and do it for us.”
“And why are you so willing to help?”
“You could have killed us,” Devin says. “And you’re so allergic that the cats will probably kill you anyway.”
Emma smiles at you.
“We’re all scientists here.”
You cough a little.
“No, Emma. I am but a beaker cleaner searching for his sponge.”
Devin nods.
“Then let’s find it.”
To trust your excellent counting skills and do it yourself, tap here.
To train the cats, tap here.
You bravely broadcast everything about the lab: the conspiracies, the secrets, and the ambiguity about the 401(k) plan. But nobody sees it because the final episode of America’s Next Top Body Part is on that night (the buttocks get second place).
In case you were curious, America’s Next Top Body Part is...the elbow!!!
You’re banned from the lab and never again see the sponge that used to know all of your top body parts. You gaze at beakers in shop windows and tell children to never fall in love.
Four years later, you are the first contestant to die on America’s Top Weird People Desperate For Money. When she sees your body, the show’s mortician says, “They aren’t paying me enough for this.”
THE END
“Sorry, Doc,” you tell old Masterson. “I’ve made the mistake of leaving my sponge before. I won’t do it again. You’re on your own.”
The security camera doesn’t say the number of the room, but that’s a good thing, since you might be confused by anything larger than eight. Anyway, you’d recognize the place anywhere—it’s the same room where you cleaned beakers when this crazy day began.
You rush through the hallways, stopping only to avoid other scientists, check your email, watch a short television program called America’s Next Top Body Part, and take a nap. You can’t slow down, so after another side trip to the lab cafeteria, a pit stop at the gift shop, and a brief chat with the financial advisor about the status of your 401(k) should you betray and/or explode the lab, you make it to the room full of beakers.
Beatram’s right there on the counter, just as you’d seen on camera. You pick him up and an alarm goes off almost instantly.
“Beatram, no! Did you betray me?”
Beatram explains that the lab knew you were on the loose and wanted to lure you in. The question is what to do next. You want to flee—but Beatram has a stranger suggestion. He wants you to clean beakers.
To escape the lab completely, tap here.
To clean beakers with Beatram, tap here.
“We shall fight!” you shout at Beatram. “I’m not going with your wimpy plan. I’m going to fix this lab forever. For science!”
The only problem is that you aren’t really sure where to start. You’ve never destroyed an entire lab before, so you search the room for a manual. You only find books about tax evasion, litigation strategy, and routes to international waters.
You’re running out of time, so you flee the room and wander the hallways, sponge in hand. But then you see them.
A gaggle of guard poodles are barking and they’ve never looked more well-groomed and upset. You throw up a hand.
“Stop, guard poodles. Listen to my case. I believe we can stop what the lab is doing and help all mankind.”
The poodles don’t listen. Beatram tries to stop them from gnawing upon your tender limbs, but he can only do so much.
The lab mortician finds your remains a few minutes later, and even he’s surprised to find that such well-groomed dogs could be so vicious.
THE END
“Stomp it!” you command Fido. “Stomp it all!”
He demonstrates a surprisingly adept understanding of the English language and begins to stomp. Using his massive weight and impressive feet, he kicks at the buildings with glee.
You watch as the concrete walls crumble under Fido’s force. You whisper to the great beast.
“They look like ants from up here, Fido. Tiny scientists, running from us. But nothing can save them now.”
Fido stomps on the occasional tiny scientist, as well as a few even tinier scientists, but you don’t mind. A few people have to suffer for the sake of progress, especially when it’s a large, recently-trained T-rex making that progress.
You see figures familiar from your time in the lab—the napkin bandana guy, the mean scientist, and the other mean scientist. But at one point, Fido hesitates. You jerk back the ferns.
“Onward you brute! We have to stomp it all.”
He stomps one building and you watch as a strange white powder collects on his taloned foot. It looks like the entire room was filled with powder.
“Don’t slow down,” you scream into Fido’s ear holes. “Not now. We’re just beginning. Stomp on that vinegar-smelling room next to it, and stomp vigorously.”
Fido hesitates, so you pull the ferns hard. He stomps.
A flood of vinegar pours onto the white powder. You realize what you’ve done.
“Oh no. Fido, you fool! I can smell that sweet white powder from here. It’s baking soda! You’ve made volcano juice!”
The foamy explosion knocks both of you backward and you fall onto the grass. You make sure none of the volcano juice gets on your lab coat, but that is a mistake—it makes you particularly appetizing to Fido.
He looks at you with sad eyes. Then he eats you
whole. Unfortunately, you only survive a few days in his stomach before dying.
The lab mortician never finds your body because he dies in the flood of volcano juice.
Beatram never learns what happened to his friend, and he thinks you abandoned him—which, in a way, is true. Your anger made you leave your closest friend behind.
Fido retires to the Berkshires.
THE END
You command Fido to run to the entrance of the lab.
From atop your reptilian steed, you can see the full majesty of the industrial wasteland and bombed out suburb where this lab, like all Fake Science Labs, is located. Just beyond the horizon, the roof of a forgotten mall glints in the smoggy daylight.
“Once,” you whisper to Fido, “that held a Spencer’s Gifts.”
The two of you reach the front of the laboratory. You tug on the ferns and Fido knows exactly what to do. He lets loose a mighty roar and the doors open. Scientists pour out, large and tiny alike. You immediately recognize the vaguely European scientist who promoted you in the first place.
“What do you want?” she asks, still rather imposing. “Whatever it is, we’ll give it to you. Just put the dinosaur down. You know what? We’ll give you our full patent portfolio. What do you think of that? The whole lab is yours. Just please, let us be.”
You’d never considered the full patent portfolio, since you don’t know what it it, but it sounds appealing and expensive. Yet part of you thinks you should go back to what you know best: cleaning beakers with your sponge.
To obtain the lab’s patent portfolio, tap here.
To clean beakers with Beatram, tap here.
You’ve made mistakes in the past, but you’ve proven yourself by now. It’s time to go on the hunt by yourself.
Within five minutes, you’re completely lost. You try retracing your steps, but the floor is too clean to see them. You’re lost.
You do manage to find the cafeteria, so you order a quick Salisbury steak, a side of potatoes, some brownies, and a soda.
By the time you finish, you’ve lost track of your assignment. Where were you going again? Were you planning on doing something about your 401(k)? Or were you going to see if any tiny scientists wanted to hang out or be stepped on?
A food coma overcomes you, but it quickly turns out to be a literal coma, thanks to the dangerous combination of radioactive isotopes in the brownies. The cafeteria’s head chef should be fired, but if you could speak, even you would admit that it was a tasty recipe.
Unfortunately, you don’t make it. The lab mortician dissects you in front of a small group of interns.
“So here’s the appendix,” he says, holding yours up. “Just trash this.”
You did not die with dignity.
THE END
“Cats ho!” you shout before sneezing, and the felines vault into the air ducts. You hear their tiny paws scampering above.
You shout into your walkie-talkie.
“Cats, are you infiltrating the room?”
From across the room, you hear a response.
“Devin, go get the other walkie-talkie, I heard something.”
Devin grabs the walkie-talkie and hands it to you.
“Cats, can you hear me?” you say into the device.
“Cats can you hear me?” the other device plays back.
“Darn it,” you say and shake your head. “I don’t understand what message they’re trying to get through. They’re repeating me.”
Emma sighs.
“Do you really think cats can talk?”
“Didn’t you hear them?”
“Did you even give one of the cats a walkie-talkie?”
“Of course not. I wanted both in case the first one failed.”
She takes the walkie-talkies from you.
“We have no choice but to wait.”
You can’t believe it.
“Does this mean we can play hacky sack?”
The three of you relive the old times playing hacky sack, though Devin isn’t as good as he used to be. It turns out that losing an arm can do weird things to your balance. Still, you shout at him to step up his game.
But you don’t have time to play much longer. You hear a rush of noise coming from the hallways, followed by a crashing sound.
“They did it!” Emma shouts. “The baking soda and vinegar!”
“Volcano juice!” you scream as the door falls.
You watch as the volcano juice rushes in, cats riding atop the waves. The next thing you know, you’ve been pushed far from the lab and are in an empty field.
“What happened?” you mutter. “Where am I? And why do I feel compelled to narrate my thoughts?”
You can barely move your head, but you turn left. And then you see it. Half of the sponge you call Beatram.
He’s broken, but he’s alive. You nurse him to health as best you can, but some things cannot be undone. As the years go by, you can’t clean beakers together—Beatram isn’t strong enough. But you clean many test tubes, and you clean them well.
You die 68 years later, in a small colony on Mars. Your last words are to Beatram.
“It only took half of you to make me whole.”
Mars Ball! What a game! Anyway, you’re dead, but watch Xlanor Tribiday perfectly hit the Mars Ball with her Mars Bat!
The colony mortician says, “Wow, that was a pretty old person. Well, back to playing Mars Ball (it’s a popular game on Mars)!”
THE END
“Forget that, Beats! We’re getting out of here.”
You are too scared to clean beakers, and if you’ve learned anything, it’s that courage is severely overrated.
You flee the room, Beatram in hand, and scan the hallway for a way out. You run as quickly as you can, occasionally hitting a few walls (you’ve never been obsessed with coordination).
Unfortunately, you don’t make it far. It turns out you’ve been running in a giant circle, giving lab security more than enough time to find you and track you down. The security guards cuff you and strip Beatram away. The guard shouts at you.
“This is, in a way, a fitting punishment for what I assume was cowardice.”
“Yep,” the other guard shouts, staring at Beatram, “I can only assume it’s a fitting reflection, in some small way, of a cosmic karmic code.”
“Say that three times fast!” the guard shouts and laughs. They throw you out of the laboratory.
You go on to have a successful career as a bartender at a bar that serves all the drinks in test tubes. But you never do see Beatram again, and you always think of him when you serve the signature drink that bears his name (baking soda, water, and pieces of sponge).
You die 12 years later in a bar fight. The bar wins. The city mortician says you were a fool to think you could beat an inanimate object.
THE END
You consider it carefully. It seems like a mistake to abandon the most important thing in your life, but on the other hand, money.
“I’ll take it!” you shout.
You take the lab’s patent portfolio and are immediately contacted by 400 different law firms. It turns out that you’re suddenly wanted for child endangerment, abuse of the patent system, systemic asbestos hoarding, insider trading of volcano stocks, and, worst of all, beaker endangerment.
“I give it all back!” you tell the vaguely European scientist. “I just wanted to make money without effort or consequence!”
“Not so fast,” she says. “You signed a contract.”
She shows you a 300 page document with your signature on each page. You recognize it.
“I thought that was just a formality.”
“That’s what contracts are. Formalities.”
You’re sent to jail for failure to understand the charges brought against you. Though you find some solace cleaning license plates with a dirty rag, it’s not like it was with Beatram.
You die seven months later by drowning (the prison has a really deep pool and, for the record, a great pool pr
ogram, but you lied and told them you could swim).
The prison mortician says you have nice hands, so he takes them home with him.
THE END
The outside world is nothing to you now. You hear nothing, and your ears fill with silence like you’re underwater. There’s a reason why: you’re here to clean beakers.
“Beatram,” you say to your trusty sponge, “let’s get to work.”
Like a bow across the strings of a violin, you wipe Beatram across the lip of the beaker.
“Kiss the lip,” you say, “kiss it my sweet sponge.”
You watch as the residue disappears and the beaker is clean. Part of you hears an alarm going off, but you ignore it to continue cleaning. But you need one thing.
Before you were whisked away in the beginning of this long journey, they refused to give you baking soda. This time, you don’t ask. You search the cabinets and, with Beatram’s help, you find a full box. You give it a smell.
“It still gets me high,” you tell the sponge. “High on cleaning.”
You douse Beatram with water and dust on your cleaning agent of choice. You wipe some tiny scientists from the beaker and try to let it all sink in, whatever may come. As you clean the second beaker, the doors burst open. You continue cleaning.
You can tell that armed guards have charged in, but you ignore them. You hear the vaguely European scientist, but you ignore her as well. Around you, you can feel that hundreds of people have rushed into the laboratory, but instead of shouting and stopping your efforts, they stand in stunned silence. Finally, the vaguely European scientist speaks, and she has tears in her eyes.
“This is what you are doing?” she asks you.
You lift Beatram from his beaker lip kiss.
“This is not what I do,” you say, your voice but a whisper. “This is who I am.”
She begins to weep, and the other scientists do the same. You see everyone from your time in the laboratory, but you only know the beakers.
You clean and the group watches in rapture as you go from one beaker to the next, you and Beatram in perfect harmony together. His pores mold to your fingers and your movements pace to his spongy rhythm. The moment breaks when the vaguely European scientist speaks.
