Whatever happened to those Choose Your Own Adventure Books?

[RazorFox]

~1~

The digital clock on your desk reads 1:30 AM. You're sitting in a rather cushy leather office chair in front of that desk staring at an empty Microsoft Word application. That little cursor on the screen taunts you, just sitting there, a perfect little black line, blinking rhythmically, in perfect sync with the heartbeat you can feel and hear somewhere between your temples and the backs of your eyes. The name you have chosen for the document is "The Next Choose Your Own Adventure Book" and you are the renowned and lauded author of the series.

You lean back in your chair, and let out a heavy, frustrated groan. It's well past midnight, and you're under contract to finish one more of these fucking books in two weeks. You signed the contract three days ago and you haven't even come up with a concept. After the ridiculous number of these things you've churned out, you're just fucking fresh out of ideas. You close your eyes and rub your temples. This headache really isn't helping either...

Your mind drifts over to those doses you bought at that party last week, the ones in the drawer in your room. You bought them mainly because you'd already been drinking and that kid with the dreadlocks made a very convincing case.

On the other hand, you've never done anything like LSD and you have no idea what it could do to you. You want the potential creative rush, but you just aren't sure...

If you want to continue trying to write without the assistance of drugs, turn to page 9.

* * *

If you want to try some of that sunshine acid in hopes that it'll aid the creative process, turn to page 21.

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~21~

You stand up from your desk and rub your eyes. You've written over a hundred of these books, with settings and twisted plotlines spanning the universe from the pyramids of Egypt to prehistory to space and beyond. You're sick of this shit. You've already sold millions of these books, are independently wealthy at this point, and could retire right now if not for the fact that you signed that contract the other day requiring that you follow through with another fucking Choose Your Own Adventure book.

You walk out of your study into the hallway and head towards your bedroom. You need a little boost of inspiration if you want to make something truly original to end your career on and keep up with your own standards of creativity. You let out a heavy sigh as you open the drawer of your night stand and pull out a small empty Tic-Tac box containing several small squares of paper, each one roughly a fourth of the size of a postage stamp. This is it, the chemical inspiration you need to let the creativity flow. As per the verbal instructions given to you by that kid with the dreads from that party, you shake one of the squares out and set it on your tongue, letting it sit there and soak for a bit, waiting for the inspiration to come. After a few minutes, nothing happens. You realize you neglected to ask the kid how long it takes to kick in, and how long it lasts, or even how much to take. Figuring one won't nearly be enough, you shake the other four squares into your mouth and swish them around a bit before swallowing them. You wait a few more minutes, still unsure of how long to wait exactly. You figure this could take a while, so you figure you should come up with a way to pass the time. It's a nice night out and you could take a nice late-night walk. You also just got the Classic Trilogy on Blu-Ray and you'd love to see how it'd look through some HDMI hookups. Star Wars was the inspiration for a number of your other books anyway, and who the fuck would care if you wrote another space book? Not your readers, they eat that shit up.

If you want to go outside for a walk, turn to page 14.

* * *

If you want to go watch Star Wars, turn to page 34.

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~34~

You flop down on your recliner and lean back. A plate of nice hot Pizza Rolls sits atop your chest. You're fucking ready man, your brain is bent over a table with its hands cuffed behind its back, perfectly ready to be fucked.

You proceed to watch Star Wars: A New Hope in its entirety feeling absolutely nothing out of the ordinary except for a slight sensation of "Wow, some shit's gonna go down over this Death Star shit" at the end of the movie. You set the now-empty plate of Pizza Rolls to the side and wipe the grease from your mouth as you stand up to put in The Empire Strikes Back. It's now almost 4:00 AM but you don't feel tired in the least for some reason. In fact, you feel unusually alert for this time of night, especially considering how drained you were before. You start to feel like you could write a million pages tonight, but about what? You finish switching the movies and return to your easy chair. Your Dolby 5.1 system blares John Williams' timeless overture throughout the room. Dah-dah-dah-daaaaaaaaaah-DAAAAAAAAAAH-dadadaDAAAAAAAAAAAH-daaaaah...

Your mind begins to swirl as the greatest idea ever suddenly hits you. You think back to writing those Indiana Jones books earlier in the decade, and it's suddenly clear how applying the same formula to Star Wars would bring in stupid amounts of bank, it's the perfect plan!

As you ponder this, you look up at the screen just in time to see Luke's Taun-Taun get swiped by a Wampa. The sudden noise startles you so much you jump out of your chair and nearly fly across the room, knocking shit over and hurting your elbow in the process. You sit there on the floor, your heart racing. You look back up at the screen and can only stare in wide-eyed horror as that very same Wampa crawls out of the screen and slowly lumbers toward you. The only ways out are to go back to the bedroom, or head in the other direction towards the kitchen.

To run to the bedroom, turn to page 28.

* * *

To run to your kitchen, turn to page 7.

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~28~

You turn and book toward your bedroom as fast as you can, the Wampa lumbering after you. Your heart is pounding so hard you feel like it'll pop out of your chest at any second. You can feel the icy claws of death by Wampa closing in around you, because you just fucking know that thing's gonna catch you and drag you back to its ice cave just like Luke and unlike Luke, you don't have telekinetic force powers or a fucking lightsaber, and even if you did have those powers, you'd never make it back to Echo Base because there ain't no fuckin' Han Solo gonna rescue your ass because you're high and you'll get arrested, man, and Solo wants no part of that shit.

You enter your bedroom and see absolutely nothing to use as a weapon. Fuck.

The Wampa turns the corner and begins to close in on you. Briefly, you notice that it no longer has a wampa face, but the visage of your late grandfather, and its claws have taken on the appearance of black, rubbery snakes. Knowing you can't make it out of the room without getting fucked up one way or another, you back out through the doors to the balcony of your 15th-story luxury condominium. The money from all these books might have bought you some really nice digs on the upper west side, but when purchasing the condo, you'd neglected to consider whether or not it would be convenient for escaping a Wampa attack. You look over your shoulder to the left and see Old Ben Kenobi, although he looks less like Sir Alec Guinness and more like Sir Ian McKellen. You curse George Lucas under your breath. "What kind of sense does that even make, you flannel-clad bastard?" you cry out. Really, Ian McKellen made a fine Gandalf, but to retroactively usurp the part of Obi-Wan Kenobi? Disgusting.

You turn back to the Wampa, which is now mere inches from you and is suddenly wearing the helm of Sauron the Deceiver and carrying an exceedingly large pair of scissors for whatever reason. You take one quick petrified and pleading glance at Sir Gandalf Kenobi. He nods calmly and tells you to simply fly away.

Flush with newfound confidence in your abilities as an aviator, you perch on the rail of your balcony and take the leap to freedom...

*THE END*

Edited January 28, 2009 by Zrazor Rozenstrauch