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Choose Your Own Drug Fueled Misadventure: F#@% This Cult

Page 4

It was practically out of your hands from the start: If mysterious robed figures didn't want you to steal their shit, they wouldn't have owned it right in your face like this. Who do they think they are, with their things, stuff and objects? They ain't better'n you!

You somersault determinedly down the sandy hill, because Zelda taught you that it is the most efficient form of movement. And sure enough, before you know it, you've already arrived, slammed headfirst into the hull of their boat, and thrown up into the eyes of the only guard that saw you, who subsequently bashed his own skull in while flailing to dig the burning whiskey waste from his ocular cavity. All is going better than expected! You enthusiastically pump your fist, and spend the next five minutes thinking of a cool one-liner to say to his corpse.

"Fuck you, corpse," you finally settle on.

You're quietly disappointed in yourself. You'll make sure to mentally insert a better line later, when you inevitably remember this as way radder than it actually was.

You heft yourself up onto the deck, crouch behind one of those giant spools of rope they always have on boats for some reason -- what the hell are those things for? -- and wait out the remainder of the bizarre voyage in relative silence.

This would normally be an impossible task for you, but you're still stuck on that one-liner thing.

"You should have seen that coming ... UP!"

"Hope your eyes aren't in AA!"

"Here's puke in your face!"

Fuck.

When you snap to, you're amazed to find that the boat has stopped, and also that it is now night. The cloaked men are nowhere to be seen. The vessel has docked at an ancient and crumbling pier, jutting out just below an equally dilapidated castle. The strangled, choking sing-song of the cloaked men's bizarre non-language echoes softly from an open cellar door. To your left, a small shack has a light on. Within it, an old, gentle-looking woman is laughing at something.


If you sneak down into the cellar, still determined to get you some of that sweet, sweet enigma-box, turn to page 9.

If you knock on the door of the shack and seek assistance from the old woman, turn to page 5.

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Robert Brockway

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