Page 2With one sharp, determined kick, the little plastic sheet rattles off its hinge and swings open. You find Ron hugging his knees, rocking back and forth on the toilet. He has wildly applied lipstick all over his face, and is singing something about âfeeling prettyâ quietly to himself.
Page 3You kick at the surprisingly hearty plastic door again and again, only to rebound uselessly off of it.
Page 4Well, that wasnât a good idea.
Page 5You rise from your seat, hurriedly remove your pants (you are supremely confident that they will have evolved out of the need for pants in the future) and do what all onlookers will later agree was an objectively bitchinâ cannonball right through the space-time continuum.
Page 6You prepare yourself for their approach, knowing - with that peculiar, undefined certainty that only an all-you-can-eat buffet of mysterious narcotics can bring - that they are here to put you on trial for all of mankindâs crimes against them.
Page 7You take a step for the raft, and at the first hint of motion, a screeching cacophony of feral cries and rampaging beasts sounds behind you. You break for the boat, leaping the last few feet at full speed. You hit the boards of the raft on your side, and your momentum pushes the boat outward, down the river. The entire jungle is screaming for your blood. The beasts of the air assail and peck at you; the beasts of the water slam into the underside of your boat and nip; the beasts of the land stand futilely at the shore, alternately roaring and calling you names. One lion is simply repeating the word âaaaassshooooleâ over and over again. Itâs really starting to hurt your feelings.
Page 8âWell, hell yes!â You answer, slapping the comforting paws aside and striding towards the man. You seize his raygun, turn on the darkness of the cave, and spray it down with white hot laser.
Page 9âHelp,â you scream, as the leaves swat at your open mouth âhelp me, Robocop!â âMy nameâs David,â the man snaps back from the open stairway. âFucking whatever, Johnny 5, just shoot the god damn plant.â âNo,â he answers, his voice quavering, âyouâre really mean and I donât like you and Iâm going home.â You inhale deeply, preparing to scream the loudest obscenity possible, cycling through your mental rolodex of robot-based epithets, but the plant has already sealed over your mouth.
Page 10The vines flap frantically about your face and jaw. You rear your head back, open your mouth, and tear a bite out of the leaf nearest you. The whole plant recoils in pain. âMy mother always told me,â you say, quietly furious that you canât reach your sunglasses, âto eat my vegetables.â You seize mouthful after mouthful of the attacking plant, until finally it begins to withdraw.
Turn to page 11.
Page 11âJesus, what the hell happened here?â Leiutenant Danielson bent down to examine the broken, twisted body, kicking away fluffs of cotton and errant cloth scraps to do so. âFlight attendant says he just went berserk. Cannonballed off the plane onto the runway, broke into the terminal, ran through the security checkpoints, stood screaming in the fountain for a minute, where he reportedly yelled to that frizzy-haired little blonde kid over there that he 'was not an asshole,' then came in here,â Detective Johnson gestured to what remained of the safari-themed giftshop they stood in. âWell, what in Godâs name did this to him, then?â âHe did. He did it to himself. The cashier, a Mr. David Spencer, says he got into a fist-fight with some pre-packaged salads - mostly Cobb, by the looks of them - and then just started tearing into the stuffed animals like a maniac. Demolished every single one, then just kind of twisted up into a ball and died.â âWait, what? Then what bent all of his limbs backwards?â The rookie seemed green, stifling a sickness. âWillpower, Danielson. Pure, unrestrained force of will,â Johnson answered. âHell of an afternoon,â Danielson said, standing and turning away just a bit too quickly. âAfternoon? No, this whole thing took a minute and a half. From plane to man-ball: Ninety seconds.â Danielson resigned from the force the next morning. He currently volunteers full time at the Serene Shores Rehab Center in South Beach. He still suffers from night-terrors and Post Traumatic Impotency.
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.
It's easy to work the system and win these awards even if you don't deserve them.