Choose Your Drug-Fueled Misadventure: The Spy Who Huffed Me


You scrabble up the side of the picturesque range. Though it is a long and arduous journey, you eventually reach its highest peaks, winded, half-frozen, but alive. Alive!

"ALIIIIIIIVE!" you turn and scream to the onlookers.

Look at them down there: Like ants.

Not because they're so small, mind you -- they actually seem to be standing just a few feet below the mighty peak you've just summited (it felt like a way more impressive feat at the time) -- but because they're all growing ant faces right now. The fat Mant that used to look like Mr. Belvedere, sans moustache, now snaps his newfound mandibles in your direction and chitters something threatening. You screech and stumble, swatting at the phantom helicopters with your mother's face that suddenly swarm the skies above you.

You have to get out of here. This place is no good.

The Mothercopters have found it.

Turn to page 5.

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Robert Brockway

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