Choose Your Own Nuthouse
Section 78
(Nick)
You open the door to the passenger side of the hearse, and climb into
the seat. You sigh in absolute pleasure, as the seat feels as if your
buttocks are being held by a set of exceptionally talented and
lascivious erotic masseuses. As you look around the interior of the
hearse, you note that everything is black. And by everything, that
means EVERY GODDAMN FUCKING THING. Even the readout on the obscenely
expensive-looking stereo is just a lighter shade of black. You let out
a low, amazed whistle.
The Skull-headed man climbs into the driver’s seat and asks, "Are you
ready to go?"
You slowly nod in response, not ever sure as to where you're going. But
you figure trying to turn this fellow down would be a BIG mistake.
No sooner has the nod shaken your head, than the Skull-headed man
starts the hearse and guns the engine. You're soon flying down the road
at a speed your head has chosen to ignore, lest thoughts of sudden
impact with, well, anything, begin to fill your brain with images of
your body suddenly having much more surface area than it's meant to.
Noticing your white-knuckled clutch on the fine upholstery of his
vehicle, the Skull-headed driver turns to you and chuckles.
"Don't worry... it's a short trip," he says.
"That's what I'm afraid of," you mumble.
"Hey, if you have a problem with my driving, you can get out and walk.
This is me doing you a favor, man. I don't just do this for anyone.
Most folks have to win a game of Halo to get a deal like this."
You pause. "Wait, isn't that supposed to be chess?" you ask
The driver shakes his head, making a rattling noise that makes you wish
you had never gotten out of bed this morning, or for that matter, ever.
"No, no, no...that's old school. I had to get with the times, man."
"Still," you say, "I think I'd rather just walk."
The driver shrugs, once again making that rattling sound. "Fine. Your
funeral." He pulls over and you open the door. You tell him thanks for
the ride, and
begin walking along the shoulder as the hearse pulls away.
You haven't made it five yards, when the hearse suddenly comes to a
halt about half a mile down the road. It suddenly turns about, with the
headlights shining in your eyes with the white-hot glare of a thousand
suns. You're rooted to the gravel like a statue. The hearse's engine
revs. You now possess the heartbeat of a horny hummingbird.
As the hearse begins accelerating towards you in definitely homicidal
manner, your legs suddenly fall in the line with the rest of your body
and decide that they don't wish to die, either, and you take off for
the woods like a shot, hoping that even Skull-headed-man-driven hearses
can't go through oak.
You continue running even when the headlights fade behind you, not
stopping for breath even when you can no longer hear the throaty rumble
of the hearse, never once looking behind you. Soon, you come to the
edge of the woods, somewhere miles away from where you started.
Continue to Section 91.