Choose Your Own Nuthouse
Section 21
(Paul)
You
figure that on one hand, hell, you might as well give the dude a lift
because
if he’s pulling this mystical shit on you then pissing him off is
likely to
have dire consequences. On the other
hand, if you keep driving, and he keeps appearing in front of you, then
if you
just drive to Lake Doomhole, he’ll actually arrive before you.
On
the third hand there probably isn’t a good choice anywhere here. Judging by his recent behavior, he’ll be
able to horribly kill you in any fashion he chooses from anywhere he
wants.
You
have run out of hands and actually owe one.
Since you’re already in the hole, though… On the fourth
hand he could be very grateful, overlook your earlier choice
as healthy caution, and reward you mightily for your generosity if you
give him
a lift now! Hooray! Mystical
rewards!
You
pull over near the man, and he gets into the car. You
belatedly realize your doors are locked, so you pop them so
the guy can get into the car but he’s already in the
car you realize and this is probably one of those times you
should scream and drive away very fast so you do but then you realize
he’s
still in the car and aah, shit!
You
fling yourself from the car and bounce along the highway because, in
your terror,
you neglected to bring the car to a stop.
Hell, your foot only left the accelerator as you hurled yourself
from
the car.
Somehow,
you do not die. When you have skidded
painfully to a halt, you pause for a moment to collect your thoughts. You are dimly aware that your car has sailed
into a modest little ravine off to the side of the road.
There is a KABOOM! Which echoes through the
night, most likely signaling the demise of your car.
Something bright orange and smoking rockets upward from the
bottom
of the ravine and is soon lost in the stratosphere.
Lying
in the road, you light a cigarette.
Midway through your first drag, your (former) left rear tire
lands
squarely on your stomach. It does this
with enthusiasm, and the kind of speed acquired only after an object
has been
hurled, flaming, high into the night sky, only to succumb to the
eternal pull
of gravity and the laws of physics. In
this case, the laws of both Newton and another man named Murphy have
joined
forces against you. Much to your
dismay. After its brief visit with your
abdomen, the ballistic tire kisses your face goodbye, and rolls away
down the
road, still burning with what the scattered, broken mess that was your
consciousness decides must be self-satisfaction.
In
a daze of pain and concussion, you crawl to the side of the road. You are almost to the shoulder when the
hitchhiker drags himself over the edge of the ravine.
He spots you.
“Stupid
drunk driver,” he mumbles, and shuffles off into the night, leaving you
all
alone. Now you seem to be well and
truly fucked. You light another smoke
(you feel lucky that you’ve got a pack in every pocket), and haul
yourself to
your feet to try and hitch a ride.
A
car is coming-no it’s a van. You stick
out your thumb, but whoever’s driving doesn’t stop.
“Fucker,” you curse. You
start ambling down the road toward Lake Doomhole. Your
friends will have beer and weed, and probably bandages for
your seeping wounds. You realize
there’s another car behind you, and turn around only to realize with a
sinking
feeling that it’s another van. The same van.
“Well.
God damn.” You figure that this
is somehow very appropriate and are willing to accept the creepiness if
it
means you’re going to get a ride. You
try not to think about ravines. Then you
realize that the car is not stopping.
In fact, it is speeding up.
Also, it’s not really following the road anymore.
Your mind doesn’t really want to believe it,
but you could swear that the van is on a direct collision course with
your
body. But that’s ridiculous!
That would be vehicular homicide! You
dimly recall having a choice of doing
this very same thing not too long ago.
But you chose not to! This isn’t
fair! This isn’t right!
This is NOT the way things are supposed to
go! Is that Stephen King?
Your
brain confirms that, yes, Stephen King is behind the wheel of the van,
and he
is laughing. He is also getting closer
at what you calculate to be about eighty-five miles per hour. Also, there is a monkey perched on his
shoulders, shrieking and pointing at you.
Possibly, you reflect, as part of your brain counts insects in
the van’s
grille, this monkey is controlling Stephen King. Yes,
that must be it. You
don’t think Stephen King is really capable of vehicular homicide. Actually, come to think of it, you have a
really creepy sense of deja vu about this.
Ridiculous! Nothing even
remotely similar to this could ever have happened before.
Ha!
Unless you were trapped in some bizarre parallel-universe thing,
or were
a character in a twisted labyrinth of choices and dead ends devised by
sadistic
twenty-somethings with nothing better to do with their ti--
Golly! It seems that you are dead! What a shame. Go
back to the previous section, Corpse Boy!