Current Events > CYOA: You're an angel with only one prayer left to grant.

(+) Yeah! (+)

It's another banner day in heaven. You pour four raw oysters and a shot of mignonette sauce into a cocktail shaker. Once vigorously beaten within their stainless steel prison, you pour the concoction into a champagne flute and down the entire thing at your desk.

"You can't drink at work," Kathy whispers from behind you.
"This isn't alcohol, Kathy, It's mostly sea water and red wine vinegar," you reply before licking the rim of the glass.
"Still, I saw you grant like five prayers while you were up-ending that foul mixture down your gullet," she frowns.
You rub two fingers along the inside of the cocktail shaker before sucking them clean. "This is heaven, baby. One angel's foul mixture is another angel's sweet sea smoothie."
"Your lunch choice wasn't really my issue, it was the inattentiveness to the prayers you just fired off."
"Don't worry about my prayers, darling. I'm changing lives one click at a time," you smirk.
"Can't believe I'm still being called darling and baby in the workplace when I'm in fucking heaven," Kathy mutters to her computer.

Kathy may have a point. You take a break from furiously clicking your computer mouse to see what's actually coming across the screen. We got a desperate plea from Luca D. who's coming at you from a trampoline in Carlsberg, Germany. Luca prays, "Please let Jonas double bounce me, I need to go higher!"
Oh hell yeah, you gotta hook your boy up. You scroll your mouse over to "GRANTED" and slam it home.

You lean back in your chair and crack your knuckles. It feels good to make a difference. Just as you're moving your hand to literally pat yourself on the back, another prayer pops into your queue. This one's also coming to you from Carlsberg, Germany. No way, what are the odds? "Please God, oh please let Luca be okay. Oh my God, he's not moving. Please God, let him wake up. This is all my fault, I should have never double bounced him. Oh my God." Sincerely, Jonas P.

.... "GRANTED".

A chat window pops up on your screen. Ugh, it's from Archangel Gabriel. "Please come to my office immediately."
You rise up from your chair and float your way over to Gabriel's office. You wonder what this could be about. You fixed Luca, probably. So it's gotta be something else.

"Thank you for coming. Have a seat, Sam," Gabriel instructs you as you enter.
"Uh, sure," you say as you glide into the hardened office chair. You fidget in your seat to try to get comfortable. "Shouldn't office chairs be more comfortable in heaven?"
"You can have whatever chair you wish back at your dwelling. But work is work, Sam. Which is why I called you here."
You look down at your stained robes. "Is it because I got mignonette sauce all over the front of my robes? I know it looks unprofessional, but I'm planning on using white vinegar to get the red vinegar stains out and I don't want to be smelling white vinegar under my nose all god damn day. Know what I'm saying?" You pull a flask from your pocket and take a small swig.
"No it's not the robes, it's - oh please tell me you're not drinking in front of me," Gabriel sighs.
"Nah man, this is Sam's special sauce. I put a bunch of shrimp and cocktail sauce into a blender, which I then funneled into this flask," you pour a little onto the floor to prove your honesty.
"Okay well not on the-," he takes a deep breath. "No more on the floor, please."
"I can lap that up if you want," you offer.
"Please don't lick shrimp off the floor, we're in a meeting. Look, Sam, this is about your job performance," Gabriel says exasperated.
You shrug. "What about it?"
---

"You don't seem to care about any of the prayers you're answering. You're just mindlessly granting all of them. And if you want to keep enjoying the perks of paradise - which for you seems to be combining creatures of the sea with things that are red - you need to start taking this seriously," he informs you.
Your mind drifts to the forty red jello shots you've centered clams inside of sitting in your fridge at home, and how painful it would be to lose them. "I... I am taking this seriously."
"Do you know what the first rule of heaven is?" Gabriel challenges you. "The point we hammered home at orientation."
"Keep it holy, baby," you reply immediately with the confidence of an angel actually had attended orientation.
"No, that's-" Gabriel trails off as he scribbles in his notebook. "That's not it."
"You writing that down?" you ask with a sly smile.
"No," Gabriel lies. "The first rule is that you need to treat the prayers you receive with compassion and respect. Thoroughly vet your prayers before granting them. Do you know how many prayers an angel needs to grant before they are free to retire and enjoy heaven without the 9 to 5?"
You bite your lip and resist the urge to say 666. You timidly shake your head.
"7,836," Gabriel says sternly.
"Jesus fucking Christ, that's so many," you rub your thighs stressfully.
"You literally have eternity to do it," Gabriel sasses you."But hey, don't worry. You've already granted 7,835."
You clap your hands together triumphantly. "Holy shit, look at me go," you laugh.
"Yeah, look at you go," Gabriel repeats, but without the pizzaz you brought to the room. "You've been here for two months and have almost finished your quota. Kathy, however, has been here for almost three hundred years and still about two thousands prayers away."
"I could talk to her, maybe. Give her some pointers," you offer.
"Kathy is cementing her place in paradise by granting divine intervention to those who truly need it," Gabriel lectures you. "She takes her time and goes over each case detail by minuscule detail. You blindly clicked your way to the finish line. You wanna look at some of your greatest hits?"
"Lay 'em on me," you lean back in your chair.
Gabriel cracks open a manila envelope. "Thomas F. prayed he'd find his cell phone, which you granted. He immediately realized his cell phone was in his pocket the entire time."
"Yeah 'cause I put it there," you argue.
"No, you didn't!" Gabriel shouts. "It was always there and he would have found it anyway within fifteen seconds of you granting his prayer."
"That's fifteen seconds back in his pocket though," you point out.
"Well he used those fifteen seconds to photograph his penis and send it to an undercover cop."
"I bet that cop was really praying for a bust," you try to pivot.
"Speaking of bust," Gabriel segues as he flips a page, "There was a married couple in Pensacola, Florida who were having intercourse. The wife prayed that her husband would just hurry up and finish already, while the husband prayed that he would last longer. You granted them both simultaneously."
"It was God's will," you throw a hail mary.
"It decidedly was not. The husband nutted, then his penis made a gasping noise, and sucked it all back up. This terrified the living shit out of the both of them," Gabriel informs you.
You put both hands on the top of your head, mortified. "It went back in?"
---

"Their sex life is ruined. They haven't had sex again since the incident. They've been too busy seeing every genitalia doctor in the Pensacola area trying to figure out whose private parts could cause the navy to retreat," Gabriel continues.
"Oh my God," you whisper.
"Nobody fucking believes them," Gabriel persists.
"Okay, okay! I get it," you tell him.
"The husband prayed for the courage to slice his penis clean off to rid himself of the chance this would ever happen again. Thankfully, the prayer went to Kathy's queue and she put the fucking kabash on that bullshit."
"Look, I'm sorry! Just tell me what you want me to do," you plead.
"You have one wish left, partner. And you're going to do this one right." Gabriel jabs his finger into his ethereal desk. "The prayer and the actions you took to determine the prayer's eligibility for approval will be reviewed by the disciplinary board. If it's determined that your selection or vetting was sub-optimal, we're sending you straight to Hell."

Visibly shaken, you leave Gabriel's office and return to your desk. What do you do?

A) Type "cancer" into the prayer database's search bar and call it a day.
B) See if anyone from your life on Earth has submitted any prayers.
C) Print out all the prayers from one town, then descend to Earth to scope out the candidates.
D) Ask Kathy for tips on how to be a good angel.
---

C

HotLap posted...

"There was a married couple in Pensacola, Florida who were having intercourse. The wife prayed that her husband would just hurry up and finish already, while the husband prayed that he would last longer. You granted them both simultaneously."
"It was God's will," you throw a hail mary.
"It decidedly was not. The husband nutted, then his penis made a gasping noise, and sucked it all back up. This terrified the living shit out of the both of them," Gabriel informs you.

Holy shit
---

YES A HOTLAP CYOA

c
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@Kircheis @fire_bolt Hotlap CYOA, get in here
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Wait, do people actually read walls of text like this?

C

Also Holy hell that's some funny shit
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C
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Will update before I go to bed.
---

C) Print out all the prayers from one town, then descend to Earth to scope out the candidates.

You scroll through some prayers on your computer, but are too nervous to even read what they're about. The threat of eternal damnation doesn't really mesh with a productive work environment. Maybe this is all just a bit of tough love. Gabriel wouldn't actually send you to Hell, would he?

"Hey Kath. Babe," you swivel around in your chair.
"What?" comes the response through gritted teeth.Even though Kathy's back is facing you, you can tell her fists are clenched.
"Have you ever heard of an angel being sent to Hell for poor job performance?" you ask her.
Kathy promptly wheels around. "Wait, what?!"
"So it's not common then... is what I'm gleaning from your reaction," you say dejectedly.
"Sam, I've never even heard of them threatening to send someone to Hell for... anything," she replies earnestly. "If they're serious about this, you must have been on the line for even getting into heaven in the first place."

You try to act surprised, but you've suspected that may have been the case since you got here. You've never been entirely sure that you were a good person. You just never had many opportunities to do bad things. That's why you've been trying to experience heaven to the fullest since you arrived here, because it could end at any moment. The grenadine and caviar lattes, finally being able to dunk a basketball, smashing a replica of your dad's home office to pieces because he told you wrestling wasn't real - this could all go away. That's why your workday has been click-click-click, back to driving an Undertaker action figure through Dad's computer monitor. Click-click-click, tasting your blood with seared scallops. Click-click-click, fucking the shit out of a hologram of Serena Williams.

Sensing she may have struck a nerve, Kathy tries to change the subject. "So what happens now? What's the ultimatum?"
You take a deep breath. "Well, the next prayer I grant is going to be reviewed and if it's shitty, I'm going down below."
"Oh, that's all?" Kathy laughs. "You've got nothing to worry about then."
"Uh... yeah. Like for instance if-" you glance back at your computer screen, "-Janice from San Francisco wants Brad Pitt to be taller, the answer is obviously..."
"No! It's obviously a denial!" Kathy shouts bewildered. "Brad Pitt is 55 years old, he's done growing."
"...But what if he was taller though?" you employ her to reconsider.
Kathy's bottom lip retracts and her fists clench up once more. "Are you an idiot?"
"Kathy, the man is 5'11. He's given us so many dynamic and compelling performances throughout his career. Can you imagine what kind roles he could get if he crossed that six foot threshold?"
"See, this is exactly your problem," Kathy claps her hands together. "When you're not approving prayers without looking at them, you're only considering what you want."
"I'm doing this for Brad!" you argue.
"You should be doing this for Janice! It's her prayer! This isn't about you or Brad, it's about her! Why does Janice want Brad Pitt to be taller?"
You squint and return your eyes to the screen. "She just always thought he was taller and when she found out he was only 5'11, she was like - 'Whoa!'. I get where she's coming from."
"Too bad! Brad Pitt is 5'11 and that's a terrible prayer," Kathy seethes.
---

"Okay how about this one? Derrick G wishes his name was spelled as the traditional Derek. Since it's two less letters, it'll take less time to write. He also wishes he didn't have a last name, because last names are a form of property?... Oh, and also so he came save time not writing it."
Kathy rises from her chair. "I need to go outside and scream for a bit."
"Oh sure, take your time," you tell her.

Kathy returns after five minutes. "You know what your problem is, Sam?" she asks hoarsely.
"That I might be sent to Hell?" you guess.
"You have been here for two months and somehow in that time you've completely forgotten what it means to be human."
"Wha-... nah! I know," you stumble through your sentence before grunting like a caveman, "I know less letters mean more time! More time for Derrick! More height for Brad!"
Kathy bites her bottom before murmuring, "So I was never planning on bringing this up, but... I actually granted one of your prayers when you were alive."
"Ah, I'm a notch on your bedpost, eh Kathy?" you chuckle.
Kathy pinches her fingers together as her whole body shudders. She takes a labored breath and warns, "If you say one more fucking word I will not help you. I will return to my desk and celebrate silently as you blow your last chance and are dragged to Hell."
You sit quietly and wait for Kathy to continue.
"Do you remember your ex-girlfriend Monica? Don't answer that, it was rhetorical," she spews quickly as she sees your mouth open. "She had a habit of bringing stray cats to your apartment and trying to domesticate them. She had such a way with those cats though. She knew when to give them space and when it was okay to engage. However, basically every instinct you had as a cat owner was incorrect. So when she brought home a black cat, named it Rosie, then got on a plane to visit her family for a week, you were a little overwhelmed. Rosie hid under your bed for days. She wouldn't eat, she had no interest in playing, and snarled every time she sensed movement in your bedroom. You were so nervous that you sweat through like three shirts trying to connect with this animal. Eventually you were so desperate that you turned to me. And I saw everything. I saw that you were angry with Monica for dumping a feral cat in your lap before leaving to Oregon. I saw you were terrified that Rosie would claw your throat while you were sleeping. I saw that you had empathy for Rosie, as you understood she was rightfully afraid in an unfamiliar situation. I saw that you were disappointed in yourself for not being able to make this scared cat feel safe." Kathy nods softly as she remembers who you used to be. "That was the biggest takeaway for me. That was the thought that was running on a loop in your mind. You just wanted Rosie to feel safe... And eventually she came out from under the bed. She ate the food you set out for her while you sat cross-legged five feet away. You laid some treats out by your feet, which were wearing steel-toed boots for protection. Your legs were shielded by your high school hockey pads. When Rosie came over to gobble up the treats, your removed the oven mitt from your hand and allowed her to smell you. She, in turn, allowed you to pet her for the first time."
Rosie was the only cat that liked you more than Monica. When you broke up, you were surprised how much you liked Rosie more than anything else in your life. Monica could have the apartment, the record player, even your Undertaker action figure. So long as you got to keep Rosie. "Thank you," you whisper softly to Kathy.
Kathy nods to you. "In that moment I could feel your anger, fear, pity, desperation, and even a little hope. Now tell me, do you really think Brad Pitt should be an inch taller because Janice already thought he was?"
---

You run your fingers through your hair in frustration. "So how do I fix me? I almost sold my soul so Derrick didn't have to write his last name anymore."
"I think you have to go back to Earth. Assimilate yourself with a town and relearn what's important. You've lost touch with humanity," Kathy suggests.
"Lost touch with humanity? That seems a little extreme. Besides, I'll need a whole new outfit. Ugh, what do humans even wear?" you ask before instantaneously following it up with, "Okay, I think I hear it now. I may be a little out of touch."
"Are you saying you've only worn those robes since you got here?" Kathy asks. "You know you can wear anything you want back at your place, right?"
The robes issued to you when you arrived are more of a long white shirt and a pair of white pants. Thankfully, it wasn't one per customer. "I haven't been wearing only these robes. I have multiple sets of robes. These are my professional robes, and my home robes have the crotch cut out for comfort and instant holo-Serena access. See, I take a pair of scissors and cut along this seam," you say as you lift your shirt for a walkthrough before your penis and testicles splat out onto your office chair.
"Sam, what the fuck?" Kathy covers her eyes.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry! I thought I was wearing my business robes, not my pleasure robes!" you apologize.
"Is everything away?" Kathy asks.
"Yeah, yeah. It's all good."
Kathy lowers her hands and sighs with disappointment.
"I feel like we were having a really nice moment before my dick and balls flopped out," you tell her.
"Let's just not talk about it," Kathy mutters.
"Talk about what?" you wink. "Just kidding, I know you don't want to talk about how you saw my dick and balls just now."
Kathy clenches her fists again.

Which town will you assimilate yourself with?

A) Some crime-infested town. There will probably be a lot of prayers to grant there.
B) Somewhere gentrified. There will probably be a bunch of progressive, boujee prayers.
C) Somewhere you've wronged. Pensacola, Florida.
D) Somewhere you've wronged, but also maybe fixed? Carlsberg, Germany.
---

A. Great story.

---

As a German, I can't not vote D
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teepan95 posted...

As a German, I can't not vote D

How have I never known this?
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Better late than never? >_>
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Im a friccin dingus.
---

Also, I googled Carlsberg and it's a 40 minute drive from me

Shame I don't have a car
---

If option D wins youll need to find a ride over there because Im going to need a full report.

Heading up to Vermont for the weekend so I wont be able to update til Sunday. Votes have been scarce anyways so it gives a couple more days for more votes to come through.
---

D

Though God, Florida and the weird sex couple is tempting too.
---

Chakrafartin posted...

Wait, do people actually read walls of text like this?

apparently it's funny? idk about all that...

---

tag
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C
florida man must find his happiness
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HotLap posted...

If option D wins youll need to find a ride over there because Im going to need a full report.

Welp, better start trekking into the mountains
---

C
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Currently tied.
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Wait it isn't tied. Oh wait post 21 by Eevee Trainer is missing.

Vote C

Up
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Oh

My

God

Yes


---

C

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Been dealing with a fever for yesterday and today. Gonna head to bed early and hopefully visit Florida Man tomorrow.
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Get well soon!
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teepan95 posted...

Get well soon!

---

D.
---

C) Somewhere you've wronged. Pensacola, Florida.

Gabriel gave you a pretty comprehensive rundown of your failures as an angel, but not too many specific examples. Really the only lead you have is the man whose weiner you turned into a vacuum. Maybe you can find this tortured soul on earth and ease his suffering by convincing him his penis is exit only. Well, unless he doesn't want it to be. He can do what he wants with it, but it's important he knows that he's in control of its comings and goings.

"Kathy, have you ever gone down to Earth to scope out a potential prayer?" you ask.
"Yeah, all the time," Kathy answers.
"How long do you usually spend down there?" you follow up.
Kathy shrugs. "Depends on the prayer. Sometimes it's only a few days, but usually it's longer. Once I spent almost three years on Earth trying to figure out if someone needed divine intervention or just traditional love and support."
"Are you fucking kidding me? Three years?" you slink down in your chair. Your shirt starts to ride up as you slide down, but you catch yourself before flashing Kathy again. "No wonder you've been here for three hundred years, you spent three years on Earth to grant a single prayer! What are you a masochist?"
"I actually didn't end up granting the prayer," Kathy admits. "The determination Mr. Hendrickson needed to build that birdhouse was inside him all along."
"It was for a fucking BIRDHOUSE?!" you shout.
Kathy shakes her head. "You don't get it. The birdhouse wasn't just a birdhouse, y'know?"
"Well shit, Kathy, I figured the birdhouse was a metaphor," you exhale exasperated. "Everything's a metaphor for something. Hell, if you wanted to spend years digging into a metaphor, why didn't you answer one of dozens of prayers from people trying to understand Inception?"
"I died in 1753," Kathy replies. "My knowledge of television and film is very limited. I've been trying to get into it at home but the screen gives me a headache. Maybe if Inception comes out on book, I can answer prayers regarding it."
"What do you mean screens give you headaches? You look at one for eight hours a day!"
"Exactly," Kathy nods. "Imagine going home after doing this for eight hours and doing it some more?"
"The movie's only two and a half hours long. Can't you just wear sunglasses?" you respond. "Or just not have a headache? I mean, we're in heaven. If you have a headache it kinda feels like you're choosing to have the headache."
"Look, when I was alive I churned by own butter and milked my own cows. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the rotary printing press," Kathy puts her hands on her knees as if she's exhausted just thinking about it. "I'm a self-sufficient woman. I'll cure my own headaches. Women got the right to vote over 150 years after I died. Now that I can, let's just say I'm stuffing the ballot box with slips of paper that say, 'I do not know who Joseph Gordon-Levitt is'."

You rise from your chair. "Well, I guess if a woman who died before the American Revolution can integrate into modern society for three years, there's no reason I can't."
"How do you know you'll be sent to modern society?" Kathy asks. "How do you know when you'll be granting prayers?"
Panic creeps over your face. Florida is already so horrible. You can't imagine how much worse it was in the past... or how much worse it could become in the future.
Seeing the sweat start to pool beneath your hairline, Kathy laughs. "Nah I'm just fucking with you."
You sigh in relief as you wipe your brow. Although, you do have one more question for Kathy. "If I die on Earth, do I die in real life?"
---

Kathy frowns. "You're already dead in real life."
"Right, but what if I go back to real life and die again?" you clarify.
"I don't understand."
You start to pace. "I'm already dead. If I die again on Earth, am I in limbo? Like... like Cobb?" you shed a single tear.
"Who the hell is Cobb?" Kathy asks.
You sniffle and wipe your nose with your sleeve. "Dammit, Kathy! Watch Inception! I didn't fully understand it ten years ago and my understanding wanes with each passing day!"

Per Kathy's advice, you head down to wardrobe before launching yourself back to Earth. You grab a cough syrup and crab legs smoothie on the way down to calm your nerves. The wardrobe department is behind a closed door at the end of a long hallway. A tall, lanky man stands leaning against a wall just outside the door. You walk up beside him and also throw your back against the wall. "Are you the clothes man?" you ask clumsily.
He shakes his head. "First time, I'm assuming?"
You nod.
"Thought so," he confirms, outstretching his hand. "I'm Val."
You accept his handshake. "Sam."
"Nervous?" Val asks.
"A little," you admit. "I don't really know what happens if you die on Earth. You ever done it?"
"We all did, mate. This is heaven," Val responds as frustratingly unhelpful as Kathy did.
"No, like... if we die again-"
"I know what you mean, brotha," Val chuckles. "You just wake up at home in bed. Right back in heaven."
You bring a hand to your chest and smile. "Oh man, what a relief! I was worried I was going to end up like Cobb."
"Cobb wasn't in limbo though," Val argues.
"Wha- how do you... how long has it been since you've seen Inception?"
"Probably ten years now. Nolan left it up to the viewer's interpretation, love," Val replies.
You roll your eyes. That's a fucking non-answer if you've ever heard one. "So what are you waiting for?" you motion toward the door.
"The wardrobe manager will only see one person at a time. If you're going down to Earth, you need to build a character. What do you look like? What are you wearing? Why are you wearing what you're wearing?" Val swoons. "He's the best of the best."
"So you do this often, I take it?" you squint.
Val looks down the hallway to see if the coast is clear. "All the fucking time," he whispers. "Management is so busy looking at the prayers you do approve, they're not looking at the ones you don't."
"I don't follow," you respond.
"We can go to and from Earth any time we want." Val winks. "And since we're already dead, nothing that we do down there has any consequence on us. Every day I go to a nihilistic version of Earth to do whatever I want, then when I need some rest and relaxation, I come on back up to heaven. I haven't granted a prayer in months. Hell, I've probably been the cause of many of the prayers in this system."
You are a little intrigued, but mostly horrified. "How are you getting away with this?"
"Because they aren't looking, mate," Val smiles. "You select the dumbest prayer you can to research, then zap on down. While you're down there you can snort some uppers, punch a fire station's dalmatian, and shit in a taxi if you want to. Then you just beam yourself back up and say, 'Wow, after heavy deliberation, I guess Brenda didn't really need a higher speed setting on her blender'. Then you fuck off to enjoy the wonders of paradise before doing it all again."
You excitedly sip your smoothie. It seems all your avenues of heavenly negligence have not been exhausted.
---

The wardrobe door opens a crack. Val turns to you and clasps your shoulder. "Remember, you don't get down there without a convincing backstory. Coming up with a human character is the hardest work I've done since I got here." Leaving you to stew on his advice, Val strides inside the wardrobe department.

You weren't the most creative person when you were alive. Now that you've lost touch with humanity, getting down to Earth may be harder than you think. While Val is getting fitted for his Earth visit, you slump down to the floor and get to work. Who are you? Why are you in Pensacola, Florida? Are you 6'4? The answer to the last one if obviously yes. Even if Janice's prayer appeal is approved, you'll still be four inches taller than Brad Pitt, which you imagine is something that's important to a person who's forced to live in Florida.

After over an hour, the door cracks open again. You're frantically running the lines you've prepared through your head. Before you stands what seems like miles of clothing racks, all guarded by a portly man with a measuring tape around his neck. The wardrobe manager barely crests above five feet, has a cropped haircut and a thin mustache. Suspenders roll over his dress shirt and reconnect with his salmon pants. His jacket rests neatly on the back of a chair nearby. "Who are you?"
"Um... I'm Sam. I need to go to Earth," you mutter nervously.
The wardrobe manager shakes his head. "I do not care who you are now. Who will you be once you don my gifts?" He motions at the clothing racks.
"My... my name is Jacob Holloway."
"And what do you do, Jacob?" he asks rapidly.
"I work in accounts receivable at a wholesale grocery distributor," you reply.
"Tell me about the last check you received," he grumbles.
"We received a check from Viva Comida for twenty five thousand, three hundred, and eleven dollars. The payment was six days late, which Viva Comida blamed on postage. We understand if a check is delayed by a couple days due to the U.S. Postal Service, but almost a full week is ridiculous. We will keep an eye out for any late payments going forward," you start to sweat again.

The wardrobe manager motions for you to sit in a nearby stool. You comply. He rests his hands on your knees and leans in close to stare aggressively into your eyes. "How's your mother, Jacob?"
"Dead."
"And your father?"
"Dead."
"Any siblings?"
"Three."
"Names!"
"Henrietta, Christopher, and George."
"Professions!"
"Real estate agent, plumber, and failed entrepreneur, respectively."
"And how are they doing now?"
"Dead."
He applies pressure to the tops of your knees and growls, "That's a lot of dead relatives, Mr. Holloway! How did they all come to meet their maker? Natural causes? A series of unfortunate accidents, perhaps? Or something more sinister?"
"Mass shooting at a mall," you answer instantly. You prepared for this. "I was devastated by the news. I'm a gun control advocate now. Months after the attack, I gave an impassioned speech to Congress that helped pave the way for other grieving family members to make impassioned speeches to Congress after subsequent shootings. No reform was ever enacted."
"That's dark, Jacob. How have you been holding up?"
"About as well as can be expected. Although for obvious reasons I can never go to Cordova Mall again," you answer.
---

"Well, of course, who could- wait did you say Cordova Mall?" the wardrobe manager asks, taking his hands off your knees.
"Yeah..." you shift uncomfortably in the stool.
"In Pensacola, Florida?"
"Yeah."
The wardrobe manager throws his hands in the air. "Jesus fucking Christ. Just say 'Florida' when you walk in next time, Sam."
"I'm... I'm Jacob Holloway," you correct him, believing this to be a test.
"You don't need a complex backstory to go to Florida, Sam," he informs you. "I'm going to give you dark jeans, a white tank top, a red bandanna, and gas station sunglasses."
"My... my family was gunned down by 1990's pop star Fiona Apple," you commit.
"Well, okay. I'm glad we didn't get that far in the backstory because I'm starting to see some holes now."
"I saw holes in my family's corpses," you shudder.
The wardrobe manager snaps in front of your eyes. "Sam! I don't say this often in my line of work, but you're overthinking this. Just go... be in Florida. Nobody in Florida cares about how anyone else ended up there."
"Can... can I be 6'4?" you stutter.
"I don't give a fuck," he replies as he throws your Florida clothes at you. "Now put these on and pick a spot where you want to drop down."

Where in Pensacola do you beam to?

A) The shingles treatment and freshwater bait center.
B) The sex swing and used tire emporium.
C) The tuba repair and gynecology outlet.
D) The exotic pet and muffler discount center.
---

amazing

D
---

B
---

Val is officially my fucking HERO.

Also:

HotLap posted...

The wardrobe manager throws his hands in the air. "Jesus fucking Christ. Just say 'Florida' when you walk in next time, Sam."
"I'm... I'm Jacob Holloway," you correct him, believing this to be a test.
"You don't need a complex backstory to go to Florida, Sam," he informs you. "I'm going to give you dark jeans, a white tank top, a red bandanna, and gas station sunglasses."

I require medical attention

Anyway:
D. That's the most Florida thing I can imagine.

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Morning bump.

Apologies if youre from Florida. Not for what I said, just that you have to live there.
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D, love how Florida is just that fucked up to be a special case
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B.
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D

Probably looking like a Saturday or Sunday update.

@Chaze_the_chat
@Vortex_of_Hope
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Oh FUCK i'm tagging this and reading it after work.

C
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D
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