You’re vaguely aware that the sun
has risen. Shades of pink paint the inside of your eyelids, while the memory of
last night is a blur of alcohol-scented flesh-colored money. You just want to sleep
it off, but the swamp of saliva you’re resting in keeps bubbling and tickling
your nose, preventing a deep, restful sleep.
The door rattles and footsteps
cross the room. You’re pretty sure it’s Monday, which means Rosalinda, your
cleaning lady, is here to clean up your weekend shenanigans. She kicks a gaming controller across the
floor on her way to the kitchen and flicks on the television. You don’t care
that she’s cursing you in a foreign tongue—your leather sofa is like a cloud
sent from heaven, cuddling you ever so gently.
Your head throbs, and you groan
as Rosalinda pitches last night’s bottles and cans into the enviro-bin. You
roll over, covering your head with a pillow, exposing your bare ass.
At what point last night did you lose your pants?
You shrug it off and smile,
trying to ignore the draft and push further into your cavernous sofa.
She turns up the volume on the
television, loudly announces that she intends to run the vacuum, and strongly
suggests that you seek the comfort of one of your many bedrooms. You grunt,
pulling the pillow tighter around your head, trying to drown out the TV.
… Our investigative reporter Gail
Silverman is live on the scene. Gail?
Thanks, Dave. I’m standing outside of Smart
EcoGen, President and CEO...
Your eyes pop open. Did she say
your name?
Surely not. You close your eyes
again, trying to get comfortable.
Picketers have started camping out in
front of the mansion since reports first started pouring in that their popular
waste recycling generator, the Environaut, is responsible for a slew of health related problems cropping up around the world. President and CEO…
You sit up. She definitely said
your name. You fumble for your glasses and accidentally spill a beer on your
cover of Scientific American. “Shit!”
...has yet to make a comment, but a Smart
EcoGen representative stated early this morning…
You jump up, flinging the beer
across the floor and onto the TV. Rosa shoots you the stink eye and stomps off
down the hall.
…are looking into the reports, but insisted
that the safety of the public has always been first and foremost…
You’re
ashamed. Ashamed that you had too much to drink, ashamed that you had too many
friends over, and ashamed that you burned the other copies of Scientific American to make s’mores—ten copies
with you on the cover, sacrificed in the name of snacks.
…What started as a peaceful display of
vulgar signs and chanting has become more…
While you mentally make the vow
to NEVER drink again, something hits your window.
…Oh my god, Dave! Protestors are
flinging…feces at the mansion! This peaceful protest just got ugly.
Your stomach turns as the clods
of human waste thud against your home. Rosalinda is going to quit for sure.
“What happened to your pants?”
You swing around and see your best friend, Smart EcoGen VP, Milo Sabe, sprawled
out on an angora rug. While he has pants, he also has a moustache and “DERP”
written across his forehead—you’re guessing with Sharpie. You keep the information to yourself as
you dig a pair of shorts out from under your couch.
“You hear what’s going on?” you
ask, slipping on your shorts.
“Protestors outside—throwing shit? Yeah, I heard.” He rubs his eyes,
shaking his head.
“What’s that about?” You walk over to the window and peer outside. “Uh…”
Outside, picketers have scaled
the outer walls of your property and are quickly crossing the lawn toward the
house. They’re dirty—real dirty. So dirty, in fact, you think that they’ve
covered themselves in the very stuff they were flinging at your home moments earlier.
Milo jumps as a window breaks.
You back away slowly at first, but as the bodies begin pulling themselves into
the room and blood drips down the broken class, you decide it’s time to go.
“Come on!” You pull Milo’s
shirt and run off down the hall, leaving the protestors' incoherent shrieks
behind you. They’re still trying to get into the house and starting your way.
Heading toward the center of
the house, you slip in a puddle of water in the hallway. You skid to a stop,
but Milo slams into you, sending you through a bathroom door. You quickly hop
to your feet, averting your eyes. “Sorry, Rosa.”
She is sitting on the toilet
with her head down. The water is on, and the tub is overflowing.
“Rosa?”
She lifts her head, and looks
at you, chewing on her thumb. “Are
you ok?”
Her bloodshot eyes stare
through you, as she peels the fingernail off with her teeth and spits it at
you. You watch it hit your chest and fall to the floor, sinking into the pool
of water collecting at your feet. Drops of blood swirl for a fraction of a second
then disappear with the current.
You feel beer vomit tickling
the back of your throat as Milo pulls you back into the hall and gives you a
shove. “Time to go!”
The sickness fades as you run
toward your bedroom. Once inside the room, you slam and lock the door.
“What now?” Milo’s eyes scan
the room as you palm your bookshelf, remembering the access combination for the
secret passageway. “Plan ahead” was
your motto when you had the house built five years ago—it’s finally paying off.
“Aha!” The door swings open and
you pull Milo into the dark hallway.
You can hear protestors banging on the door as you close the entrance
and head down toward the emergency bunker below the house.
Your hand traces the wall, flipping
on the light. The fluorescent bulbs buzz and pop, illuminating a massive room filled
with cutting edge technology.
“What the hell, Bruce Wayne?
How long have we been friends? You never told me you had a Batcave. I hate
you,” Milo says.
“Oh, shut up. What’s the point
of having all this money if I can’t indulge in a little frivolous spending?”
“A little?” Milo snorts, looking over the extreme gadgetry
and flickering control panel. “I want a raise.”
You fire up a large display,
push several buttons, and instantly you can see the whole perimeter of the
house as well as many of its rooms. It’s quickly filling with protestors. You
see their painted faces and wild eyes on the monitors. A thought creeps into
your head and you shiver. They’re hunting
you.
Milo is staring at the screen
too—the color drained from his face. “What button do I push for the Batmobile?
You have one right?”
“Uh… Yes and no.”
You press a button and the room
begins to vibrate. A door opens, revealing an impressive display room filled
with boxes of comics ordered alphabetically. Action figures fill glass
displays—some loose, others with original packaging. In the middle of the room,
on a pedestal, sits the Batmobile—a miniature replica fit for a circus clown.
“Shit.” Milo deflates. “That’s
not going to get us out of here.”
“No, but I have a car.” You
smile and press another button. A garage door opens, exposing a custom DeLorean
DMC-12.
“Of course you do,” Milo rolls
his eyes. “Does it run?”
“Sh-yeah.” You think it
does anyway.
Milo hops in the car and you
grab the keys, pondering your plan of action.
Should you:
A. Head to Smart EcoGen HQ and see if you find out what's going on;
B. Hold your ground and take back your house; or
C. Screw this! Just drive!
Should you:
A. Head to Smart EcoGen HQ and see if you find out what's going on;
B. Hold your ground and take back your house; or
C. Screw this! Just drive!
