You step through the doorway, and immediately recoil.
Sprawled across the floor in front of you is the lifeless body of a man, his labcoat stained red with blood.
>Go through the door and look for more shark friends.
There don't seem to be any sharks in here.
Just the dead guy.
>put your clothes back on, I guess
You put your clothes back on, you guess.
>question what, the fuck, exactly, is wrong with you, and decide you don't care.
People ask you that a lot.
Boring people who are not vampires.
>Make an helmet using the skull, body suit armor with the books and a shield with the washer door.
Perhaps feeling rather vulnerable following this latest discovery, you quickly convert the top half of the pig skull into a battle helm befitting a mighty warrior.
The washer door is rather more difficult to remove, but with some twisting you manage to yank it free.
However, now you are faced with the problem of how to convert this door and the books into armour you can actually wear. Perhaps there's something around here that you can combine them with?
>Wrap bedsheep around door to make an improved handle for it. Using more bedsheet that you spin into a rope bind the book together in order to assemble a book breast plate!
>Wrap bedsheep around door to make an improved handle for it. Using more bedsheet that you spin into a rope bind the book together in order to assemble a book breast plate!
You wrap the sheet around the washer door and wear it on your left arm. Ta da! Now you have a light, moderately sturdy shield.
The breastplate is a little flimsy, but the thick books ought to offer some protection.
>Ransack the bathroom cabinets and check the shower
The bathroom cabinet contains a nail file, a first-aid kit and an assortment of household cleaning products.
The shower contains only one bottle.
That's all the ransacking you can do here. If you want to take anything, you're going to need to free up some space in your inventory first.
>steal the dead guy's wallet
Rummaging through a dead man's pockets is hardly an appealing prospect, but you figure you might find something of value. Swallowing your pride, you search the body and quickly retrieve a leather wallet.
Of course, you can't take it with you while your inventory is full.
> Squirm a bit as you examine its contents.
Feeling decidedly guilty, you open up the wallet and look inside.
It contains $40, a set of car keys, and several cards, including a driver's licence identifying the body as Leonard Skoll.
>Perform an autopsy.
There are numerous cuts in Skoll's head and back, some of them quite deep. The cuts look to have been inflicted by something which punctured his clothes - stab wounds, maybe? You're not a doctor, but you'd guess he most likely died of blood loss.
Skoll looks to have been in his mid-to-late twenties. He is short, lean, and fairly muscular.
>Dump some useless crap, take the key and the wallet, find Leonard's car and hightail it outta there
You drop the posters, the bobblehead and the Nestlé® Wax Beetle™. When have they ever been any use to you? Never, that's when.
You stow the brass key and the wallet in your inventory.
Finding Leonard's car has now been added to your list of objectives.
>Pull the shower curtain down and convert it into a makeshift bag in order to save/increase inventory space.
You place your new bag in your inventory.
All inventory slots are now full.
>Tear off a strip of the shower curtain and use it to bind the pig's jaw to your lower torso and use it as pelvic armor.
Good thinking. You definitely don't want to get hurt down there.
The bag in your inventory is now slightly smaller.
>Press button, receive bacon
You push the button on the bacon dispenser and receive a rasher of cooked bacon.
You store the bacon in the bag in your inventory.
>Meditate on what Oregon means to you.
You cast your mind back, trying to recall what Oregon means to you.
Not a whole lot, as it transpires. Northwest. Lots of rain. Blue state.
You don't recall ever going there.
>Journey back to the trash compactor and flip levers 1 and 3, if possible.
You make your way back towards the compactor.
>Whistle the Indiana Jones theme.
And so commences an epic journey, which requires an appropriate musical accompaniment.
All right, you're here. Scroll up and kill the music!
You flip switch 1 downwards and hear a rumbling sound, immediately followed by the sound of running water. You flip switch 3 downwards and hear another, more distant rumbling. The sound of running water continues.
The box is big enough to stuff a human body in, or maybe a CPR dummy, but contains only another pig femur and some small scraps of rotting meat.
>Try to analyse the relative positions and distances of the rumbling and water by ear.
The sound of the first rumble sounded very close under your feet. The sound of the second rumble came from much further down - probably less than 100 metres, but still a long way down. It also sounded somewhat muffled.
The sound of the water is harder to place. You can definitely hear running water close by, but it also sounds as though it's further away as well.
You begin the descent of the ladder once again. Immediately, you notice that the door marked '1' is now open, and water is gushing out of it with enormous force. Even if you could see an obvious way to reach the portal, there's no way you'd be able to get through that torrent.
>...while still doing the Caramelldansen.
You take your hands off the ladder and resume your dance.
You do as Magic Jane prompted, and do as Magic Jane prompted.
Back in the drain, you find that the door beneath the number 2 is now closed, as expected. Switch down, door open; switch up, door closed. Simple.
Water continues to gush from the portal overhead.
> Attempt to awaken your latent vampiric ancestry.
You concentrate as hard as you can, seeking out the vampiric instincts buried within your unconscious mind, feeling the blood of your ancestors course through your veins. You feel powerful, dangerous, irresistible. You throw back your head and let out a laugh as you allow the darkness within you control and feel the transformation begin.
You become...
My God.
YOU BECOME...
...cognizant of the fact that no change whatsoever has actually taken place, and furthermore that all that has actually happened is you standing around in a drain, ankle-deep in water, laughing maniacally at nothing in particular, wearing a washer lid strapped to your arm, a rubber band in your hair, books over your shirt, and bits of pig skeleton over your face and crotch, and with the grimy, metallic taste of a dead man's blood that you licked off the floor still lingering against your tongue.
Really, you are utterly astounded by how overactive your IMAGINATION is. If your imagination was a face you would kiss it. Then it would have the taste of blood in its mouth, too.
Comments
You throw an imaginary d20.
Your roll is a success. You manage to keep your Panic Gauge at a safe level. Still, though, eesh. That is a lot of blood.
>bash the door down
You fling yourself shoulder-first against the sturdy fire door, but it doesn't so much as wobble.
> Be the limbless wonder.
This probably isn't the time to roleplay!
>Examine that blood.
Most of it is dry, but there are puddles approaching the far door that are still wet. More appears to have seeped through from under the door.
>Log on to your favorite website, www.heapershangout.com!
You can't attempt to visit websites you've never heard of! Besides, you have no means of accessing the Internet right now.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
The far door is not locked. It swings open easily.
>go streaking
You run naked around the empty room with wild abandon.
You really are a strange individual, you know that?
>Question why your vampiric ancestry hasn't awakened at the sight of all this blood
A troubling thought, which raises the very plausible worry that you may not have vampiric ancestry at all!
Can't hurt to try it, though...
Ew.
...OK, you guess your vampiric ancestry just hasn't awakened yet. That must be it. Yeah.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
You step through the doorway, and immediately recoil.
Sprawled across the floor in front of you is the lifeless body of a man, his labcoat stained red with blood.
>Go through the door and look for more shark friends.
There don't seem to be any sharks in here.
Just the dead guy.
>put your clothes back on, I guess
You put your clothes back on, you guess.
>question what, the fuck, exactly, is wrong with you, and decide you don't care.
People ask you that a lot.
Boring people who are not vampires.
>Make an helmet using the skull, body suit armor with the books and a shield with the washer door.
Perhaps feeling rather vulnerable following this latest discovery, you quickly convert the top half of the pig skull into a battle helm befitting a mighty warrior.
The washer door is rather more difficult to remove, but with some twisting you manage to yank it free.
However, now you are faced with the problem of how to convert this door and the books into armour you can actually wear. Perhaps there's something around here that you can combine them with?
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
You wrap the sheet around the washer door and wear it on your left arm. Ta da! Now you have a light, moderately sturdy shield.
The breastplate is a little flimsy, but the thick books ought to offer some protection.
>Ransack the bathroom cabinets and check the shower
The bathroom cabinet contains a nail file, a first-aid kit and an assortment of household cleaning products.
The shower contains only one bottle.
That's all the ransacking you can do here. If you want to take anything, you're going to need to free up some space in your inventory first.
>steal the dead guy's wallet
Rummaging through a dead man's pockets is hardly an appealing prospect, but you figure you might find something of value. Swallowing your pride, you search the body and quickly retrieve a leather wallet.
Of course, you can't take it with you while your inventory is full.
> Squirm a bit as you examine its contents.
Feeling decidedly guilty, you open up the wallet and look inside.
It contains $40, a set of car keys, and several cards, including a driver's licence identifying the body as Leonard Skoll.
>Perform an autopsy.
There are numerous cuts in Skoll's head and back, some of them quite deep. The cuts look to have been inflicted by something which punctured his clothes - stab wounds, maybe? You're not a doctor, but you'd guess he most likely died of blood loss.
Skoll looks to have been in his mid-to-late twenties. He is short, lean, and fairly muscular.
His right hand is clutching a large brass key.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
You drop the posters, the bobblehead and the Nestlé® Wax Beetle™. When have they ever been any use to you? Never, that's when.
You stow the brass key and the wallet in your inventory.
Finding Leonard's car has now been added to your list of objectives.
>Pull the shower curtain down and convert it into a makeshift bag in order to save/increase inventory space.
You place your new bag in your inventory.
All inventory slots are now full.
>Tear off a strip of the shower curtain and use it to bind the pig's jaw to your lower torso and use it as pelvic armor.
Good thinking. You definitely don't want to get hurt down there.
The bag in your inventory is now slightly smaller.
>Press button, receive bacon
You push the button on the bacon dispenser and receive a rasher of cooked bacon.
You store the bacon in the bag in your inventory.
>Meditate on what Oregon means to you.
You cast your mind back, trying to recall what Oregon means to you.
Not a whole lot, as it transpires. Northwest. Lots of rain. Blue state.
You don't recall ever going there.
>Journey back to the trash compactor and flip levers 1 and 3, if possible.
You make your way back towards the compactor.
>Whistle the Indiana Jones theme.
And so commences an epic journey, which requires an appropriate musical accompaniment.
All right, you're here. Scroll up and kill the music!
You flip switch 1 downwards and hear a rumbling sound, immediately followed by the sound of running water. You flip switch 3 downwards and hear another, more distant rumbling. The sound of running water continues.
The box is big enough to stuff a human body in, or maybe a CPR dummy, but contains only another pig femur and some small scraps of rotting meat.
>Try to analyse the relative positions and distances of the rumbling and water by ear.
The sound of the first rumble sounded very close under your feet. The sound of the second rumble came from much further down - probably less than 100 metres, but still a long way down. It also sounded somewhat muffled.
The sound of the water is harder to place. You can definitely hear running water close by, but it also sounds as though it's further away as well.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Oo-oo-ooa-ooa! Oo-oo-ooa-ooa-ao!
>Climb down and look for new places to go!
You begin the descent of the ladder once again. Immediately, you notice that the door marked '1' is now open, and water is gushing out of it with enormous force. Even if you could see an obvious way to reach the portal, there's no way you'd be able to get through that torrent.
>...while still doing the Caramelldansen.
You take your hands off the ladder and resume your dance.
Oh-wa-oh-wa-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
Fortunately, your book armour cushions your landing considerably. Alas, it does nothing to preserve your now-almost-nonexistent Dignity.
You pick yourself up and peer down the drain. The water runs over the side of the ledge and into the blackness below.
>Flip switch 2 up.
You climb back up the ladder and flick switch number 2. You hear another rumbling sound from beneath your feet, this one sounding fairly close by.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
You stand up straight and adopt a serious expression, but nothing seems to happen.
Truth be told, posing like this when nobody's around feels a bit silly in itself!
> consult Magic Jane
There's no post on Sundays, and there's no such thing as magic! You don't think you know anyone called Jane, either.
You imagine a spooky witch whose profound wisdom you would certainly seek, if only magic was real.
"You should probably go see what that last switch did," prompts the imaginary witch.
You do as Magic Jane prompted, and do as Magic Jane prompted.
Back in the drain, you find that the door beneath the number 2 is now closed, as expected. Switch down, door open; switch up, door closed. Simple.
Water continues to gush from the portal overhead.
> Attempt to awaken your latent vampiric ancestry.
You concentrate as hard as you can, seeking out the vampiric instincts buried within your unconscious mind, feeling the blood of your ancestors course through your veins. You feel powerful, dangerous, irresistible. You throw back your head and let out a laugh as you allow the darkness within you control and feel the transformation begin.
You become...
My God.
YOU BECOME...
...cognizant of the fact that no change whatsoever has actually taken place, and furthermore that all that has actually happened is you standing around in a drain, ankle-deep in water, laughing maniacally at nothing in particular, wearing a washer lid strapped to your arm, a rubber band in your hair, books over your shirt, and bits of pig skeleton over your face and crotch, and with the grimy, metallic taste of a dead man's blood that you licked off the floor still lingering against your tongue.
Really, you are utterly astounded by how overactive your IMAGINATION is. If your imagination was a face you would kiss it. Then it would have the taste of blood in its mouth, too.
But some day you will sparkle. Some day.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead