On SSS/Road Dawgs from a week or two ago /u/SamTheManBrown mentioned his idea to come to a random town in the middle of the country for when he turns forty (lordy lordy). Now Sam I know you wanted an essay contest but I'm going to give more of a pitch because I think that my town would be perfect to host such an event for many reasons. So consider this my official bid to have your 40th hosted in Fayetteville, Arkansas!

Located deep in the Ozarks, Fayetteville is a beautiful small city filled with laid back people and funky vibes which are driving a population and cultural boom. Somewhat of an oasis in the mostly otherwise predictable state of Arkansas most everyone here has an open mind and welcomes everyone of all walks of life from all over the world and would love to have anyone and everyone of Whoretown Nation over for a birthday bash. Furthermore, we are home to the University of Arkansas which supplements the city's wonderful population with plenty of college students who are always eager to party. In fact many of them were probably brought up with the WKUK (during my time there almost all of my friends knew of y'all and we spent many an evening watching the show). If you thought Conway was fun then come up and experience the objectively superior Arkansas college town. But wait there's more!

Being a thriving arts hub we have a slew of great venues and theaters who would love to host. Whether you're thinking of doing some sketches, having a band play (there are many and I can coordinate), throwing a good old party, or any combination of the three, we've got options and yours truly, having been around the music scene here almost since birth, will have no problem being able to book one of them. From the historic George's Majestic Lounge, an legendary venue with general admission and standing room that can handle a shindig or two, to the Walton Arts Center, a more traditional theater perhaps best suited to performances, to the university's outdoor Greek Theater which provides great views and wonderful weather in the fall, we have many sites to choose from. In fact I have looked into the scheduling for all three and there are dates available on the week of the big day. But hang on it gets better.

well i have almost come to the place where you fell

tripping over a wire at the forty-fourth lap

and I have decided to keep running,

head up, body attentive, fingers

aimed like darts at first prize, so

I might not even watch out for the thin thing

grabbing toward my ankles but

I'm trying for the long one mama,

running like hell and if I fall,

i fall.

I am currently very overweight, and unemployed. I plan to set up a realistic diet and exercise program to see how far I will improve myself before my fortieth birthday. I will try to lose some bad habits as well.

Wish me luck!

I didn't say to them that it was my birthday but a guy who had been my Community Psychiatric Nurse popped in for a drink and I just mentioned to him that it was my fortieth. His response was to pay for a drink behind the bar for me.

It turns out that in addition to buying me a drink behind the bar he also told them that it was my birthday. So I've just had a free pint as a result.

I wish I can live happier and happier everyday...

I wasn't originally going to go out for my birthday, due to being on the tail end of the flu, but I couldn't let tickets go to waste.

Fair warning: I'm writing this drunk.

So I went to see Cherry Poppin' Daddies at Iridium. Being the Times Square dinner theater shithole that it is, the food was terrible, but the band made up for all of it. They announced a new album, but everything was still being finalized. After the show, I had a quick chat with Steeeeeeeve Perry and told him that they've been a recent birthday tradition for me and asked for some more info about the new album, but the conversation that I was interrupting was actually about that, so I said thanks for the show and made my way to the door to figure out my next stop.

I stood on Broadway for a few minutes pondering my plans as the tourists left School of Rock. I could either go back to my neighborhood where my local bar had a jazz night going on, or I could do ... what, exactly? Honestly I didn't really have a plan.

I pondered for a minute and then remembered that a waitress from a sushi place that I used to go to sings at a place in the west village called Smalls, and they do an open session on Sundays. So I said fuck it ... on to the open session.

Why the fuck is there a line in front of Smalls on Sunday? It's supposed to be their quiet night!

Turns out I showed up two hours early.

No worries. I'm out for a good time so I paid the $20 cover and went in, I had a few chats with a few folks and eventually went to their sister venue, Mezzrow. I had a couple of chats with folks, nothing really noteworthy, and closed the place out, then returned to Smalls.

As I was sitting there, the booze and other had done its work and I was now feeling chatty. I had a couple of quick chats with people, including a cat sitting next to me who was digging the music to which he and I gave each other a smile and a nod as if to say "right on". However, the lady sitting on his other side took that as an indication that he and I were old friends, despite not yet exchanging a word. Sometimes people just get it, and sometimes they don't... however....

She introduced herself ... I don't recall her name ... and insisted that he and I were old friends, but we had just met and became fast friends through this awkward situation.

She asked where we were from ... he was from Australia and I was originally from Texas, although I grew up in NY. Obviously, this fucked up her internal narrative a but

How old are your oldest friends that you see in real life, not just online? I have two that go back about twenty years to eleventh grade. I see one a few times a year, one every couple years.

(Note: this is the second of a two-part write-up on Laureen Rahn’s case. Please read Part One before this one).

Later Developments:

As months passed, police investigated various leads, but made little progress in finding missing 14-year-old Laureen Rahn, who had disappeared from her Manchester, New Hampshire apartment in the early morning hours of April 27, 1980. Meanwhile, the case received significant local press, and various rumours circulated about what might have happened to the girl. There was talk that a sexual predator might have lived in Laureen's building, or that the "Moonies" might have gotten her, or that an employee at the Rosebud Superette might have been involved. Of course, none of the rumours were ever substantiated.

In her desperation, Laureen’s mother Judith Rahn began to consult psychics -- a practice which she would continue over the years. Police, having little solid evidence to go on, would investigate the contents of the psychics' claims.

One psychic claimed that Laureen was dead, and that she was buried in Goffstown. Another psychic, from Virginia, described a vision of a room at a fuel depot near the Merrimack River. According to police, her description was eerily accurate -- so accurate that they even dug up several feet of dirt in the building, though they found nothing.

"Some of us, including me, were very skeptical of the psychic stuff, but that's how far it got. We wanted to eliminate every possibility and we were ready to try anything,'' explained Deputy Chief Ken Murby in 1990. Besides consulting with psychics, they had Laureen's girlfriend who had been at the apartment that night hypnotized, to see if it might dig up any memories. It didn't work.

Then, in November of 1980, Judith opened her phone bill. As she scanned it over, something caught her eye: on October 1st, three calls placed in Santa Monica, California, all within 10 to 15 minutes of each other, had been billed to her number.

Judith did not recognize those calls, and she had not gone to California. She didn't even know anyone there. Right away, she was certain that only Laureen could have made the calls.

Judith contacted Santa Monica police. They helped her determine that two of the calls had been placed from a Santa Monica motel pay phone to

I grabbed at the twine, but my daughter’s balloon quickly flew beyond reach.

Suddenly, memories flashed through my mind.

The balloons floated above the kitchen table on Lila’s first birthday. Her mother and I screamed at one another while she cried confused. The big piece of cake on the tray of her high chair exploded when she slammed her hands down on it, ending the whole row.

When she was two, my wife and I had our last fight as a couple. I found out her mother had cheated, so I punched her in the stomach while our daughter sat on the floor watching TV. When she fought back, it became bad and Lila tried to break us up. I backhanded her and then dragged her mom into the bathroom and locked the door. She pounded on it even long after hers were the only knocks heard.

That day in eighth grade she tried to hide her report card from me…

The first time she screamed, “Fuck you! I hate you!” She was fifteen. When she ran, I snatched a handful of her hair and that was enough. While kneeling on her back, I dug my hand into her neck, snarling, “Just like your bitch of a fucking mother. Fuck you too.”

The first boy she ever brought home was the last boy she ever brought home that I knew of. Then again, I was in jail for two months after that one and who knows if she really stayed at her aunt Jenn’s house.

When she was eighteen, she rushed through the door with a bat. She missed my head, but got my shoulder. I was too drunk to do much, but I wrestled it away from her and kicked her out of the house. She screamed outside at me for hours.

On my fortieth birthday, I was alone and intoxicated. I called her up and told her she should come over and make her dad a little less lonely. She knew what I meant and hung up. I phone terrorized her until she turned it off. I stumbled from my house to go to her, but woke up the next day on my lawn.

Today’s memory: I got a call from her. She invited me out. I thought she might want to reconcile. I knew I did. I’d been a shitty father. I was excited when I met up with her and her son at the fair. He was the spitting image of me at that age. I tousled his hair and smiled as we ascended. I met her gaze and she forced a smile. I thought I understood, but now I know.

As I flail through the air with the wind rushing in my ears and Idaho racing up to meet me, I know exactly why she pushed me from the balloon’s basket.

I’m just glad that, at the last second, I’d recognized her intention to shove and had

Forty Fatal Folk Tales: Fables 1 - 10

Forty Fatal Folk Tales: Fables 11 - 20

Forty Fatal Folk Tales: Fables 21 - 30

Today is my fortieth birthday.

Today is also, if you believe the things just explained to me by the humongous spider creature and my dead parents and grandpa, the day I'm destined to die.

Let's back up slightly.

The ghost (if that's even what they were) of my mother reached across the kitchen table and lightly squeezed my hand.

"I know it's a lot to process, honey," she said softly, eyes meeting mine for only a moment before turning away.

A sardonic laugh escaped from my throat before I could stifle it. "Yeah, I'd say that's about the understatement of the year." My eyes suddenly watered. "You all died, mom, you've been gone for weeks and I've been all alone, and now there's this fucked up spider monster here who's apparently been watching me since I was a kid, and grandpa was a wizard or something and his best friend was like Professor Snape, and they wrote this book of demon curses that I'm being forced to read and it cut me when I tried to stop reading, and I jus—I just want everything to go back to normal."

My father let out a sigh from the seat next to me. "Francis, please try to understand, we're all here now so we can help you. We know things are confusing and frightening, and there's a lot more information coming up that you'll need to digest before we can even get into the backstory of things—"

"Stop, David. Let me." My grandfather's voice rang out from the head of the table. "This is all my fault, and I'm the one who needs to fix it."

I looked up, a barely contained well of tears still glistening in my eyes. My grandpa smiled faintly, and my mind raced through decades of memories with him. My senses were overwhelmed with the scent of his aftershave, the feel of the soft, worn patches on the elbows of his coats, the sound of his hearty laughter booming all around me as I told him another silly joke.

Surely I must be safe if my grandpa was here to help, right?

The hairs standing up on the back of my neck weren't as certain.

He continued. "There is a way out of the path that Pat set for you. The rest of us weren't able to avoid the pendulum of Fate swinging our way, but you still can. Most of my own meager abilities have been long since lost to time, but I've been able to use some of it to help influence Pat's writings,

The funeral director was asking us what we think Mum should wear in her casket.

Mum always loved to wear sarongs (fabric wraps that go around the torso and drape downward a bit like a long skirt would), so my uncle suggested that she wear a sarong in there.

The funeral director looked a bit confused, as did some of our family members, to which my uncle added:

"What's sarong with that?"

I started laughing like an idiot. He was proud of it too. The funeral director was rather shocked. We assured her, and our more proper relatives, that Mum would've absolutely loved the joke (which is very true).

His delivery was perfect. I'll never forget the risk he took. We sometimes recall the moment as a way help cushion the blows of the grieving process.

--Edit-- I appreciate the condolences. I'm doing well and the worst is behind me and my family. But thanks :)

--Edit-- Massive thanks for all the awards and kind words. And the puns! Love 'em.

Part 3

My brother’s been kidnapped. My home has been broken into. My car has been wrecked. I’m really fucking over this night.

I limped and stumbled from the crash for about twenty minutes, and found myself standing outside the house where the party was. The lights were dim, and I could feel the bass thumping.

I walked up to the porch, and noticed that on the stairs there was a white envelope. On the outside was written, “Dear Alyce.” Picking it up, I opened the envelope. There was a card inside. Pulling it out, I could see it said “It’s a Party!” on the front, with colorful balloons, birthday hats, and streamers. Flipping it over, there was a brief note:

>You finally made it and with nary a moment to spare,
>
>Rush inside and find the kitchen, if you dare.
>
>It’s a party, and we’re going all out,
>
>You’ll have so much fun it’ll make you shout.
>
>Look for a package with a pretty bow.
>
>Surprise! It’s for you! Now you know.
>
>I know it’s not your birthday (but it’s getting near),
>
>But every party needs presents, or I’d be a bad dear!

Good. More poem-based jackassery. Exactly what I needed.

I folded the card in half and shoved it into my pocket, then I walked into the house.

Strobe lights made my first steps disorienting. That, or the possible concussion. Each step I took made a squelching noise, as my shoes briefly stuck in the coating of spilled beer. Some unidentifiable song was playing, but all I could really hear was the bass, which was so powerful it was making the picture frames on the walls vibrate.

The only thing that was missing: people.

The party was completely deserted.

I walked through the living room and headed to the back of the house, where I figured the kitchen would be. And, sure enough, I found a dark room that had the kitchen smell to it. I fumbled around for a light switch, and finally got the lights on.

Standard middle-class kitchen. Nicer than what I was used to, but not fancy-ass black metal knives fancy. If that’s a thing.

In the middle of the kitchen was a small table, and on it sat a long box with ribbon and a bow.

“What the fuck…”

This shit was beyond weird. But they have Stu, so I’ll play their stupid game.

Walking up to the table, I slid the box closer to me.

Hefty.

Someone got me something with some weight to it. That did no

Rule #2: Set your objectives

By defining what you mean by wealth, you now have a destina­tion. Setting your objectives is establishing a timetable to reach that destination. It’s quite simple. If you know you are going to drive to a certain place it makes sense to know:

• what time you are leaving home• what time you expect to arrive• what route you are going to take• what you will be doing when you get there.

Getting rich is exactly the same. You will want to know in advance what rich means to you, how you intend getting there, how long you expect it to take and what you are going to be able to do or want to do with your money when you get it.

So, having defined what wealth means to you, can you now see the importance of setting your objective? Think about how you intend getting rich and how long it is going to take you and then set your objective. It might be simple: ‘I am going to be a millionaire by my fortieth birthday and I shall make my money by running my own property development company.’

That was easy. Well it was for me because I’m only making up an example for you. For you I wager it’s going to be pretty hard. This is because you won’t have thought about this before. Oh, I daresay you might have had a casual dream – I want to be very, very rich and/or famous and/or successful. But few people – only the rich, famous and successful ones in my observation – actually decide what and when and how. You have to if you too want to be wealthy. And I assume you do or you wouldn’t be reading this far. Good for you.

Now set your objective. I can wait.

Back already? How did you get on? Your objective has to be real­istic, honest and achievable. By realistic I mean that setting an objective of being the richest person in the world might happen but it isn’t going to, it isn’t realistic.

Honest means you have to be true to yourself and set an objective that you can live with and work with. Lying to yourself means it will fail. Lying to others means it will fail.

Achievable? Yes that too. If you know nothing about property and aren’t interested in learning, have no capital and can’t get a mortgage, then setting an objective to be a property developer isn’t realistic, honest or achievable.

Happy with what you’ve got? Good. If not, have another bash at it and let’s get a move on: we want to get you up and running as soon as possible.^(1)

^(1)Templar, R., 2017. The Rules of Wealth. 4th ed. Harlow, England: Pearson Education.

Takealot link to buy bo

But Bill kept the Windows

True story; it even happened last night. My 5-year-old son walks up behind me and out of the blue says, "hey."

I turn to him and say, "yeah, kiddo? What's up?"

He responds, "it's dead grass."

I'm really confused and trying to figure out what's wrong and what he wants from me. "What? There's dead grass? What's wrong with that?"

.

.

.

He says, totally straight-faced, "hay is dead grass," and runs off.

You officially hit rock bottom

https://preview.redd.it/qnnbqbmqchm61.png?width=1651&format=png&auto=webp&s=110c83ae0958d744ea9b36f0b5a100874c896dde

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***

“We need to talk.”

Rudra looked up from the fire to see who had just spoken and saw the woman whom the leader had consulted on the day they’d all first met. Even weeks later, he still didn’t know her name. He didn’t know anybody’s name, to be fair. There seemed to be some sort of standing orders that nobody was allowed to talk to him. Normally this would have driven him up a wall, but so many new things had been thrown at him so far that he didn’t mind it as much as he otherwise would have.

Rudra found this new world, and the forest they’d been hiking through since the day he’d been captured, to be strangely fascinating. The woods teemed with all sorts of life unlike anything he’d ever seen. Brightly-colored birds with four wings flew about. Strange rodents with bizarrely long legs and massive eyes scampered along the branches above. Insects that seemed to have two distinct and equal heads crawled up and down the tree trunks. Even the trees themselves had become strange, slowly getting bigger and bigger as they went deeper into the forest until they were all over four meters wide. For somebody whose only real experience with jungles stemmed from the “urban” variety, it was a lot to get used to.

“What is it?” he asked as the woman sat down beside him, forcing one of the people guarding him to move over. Her face took on a red hue in the firelight, the flickering flames making her neck tattoos seem almost alive. Most people in the group had some sort of neck tattoos. Rudra believed that they were some sort of status symbol, as the leader had the most complex designs on him, while the only people with no markings were the ones who had no weapons. Everybody referred to them as “Shells”.

Shells did all the boring physical labor, setting up the camp, making the fires, cooking, carrying the supplies as they walked, and anything else that the others didn’t seem to feel like doing. Rudra didn’t understand why they obeyed e

No it doesn't.

Now it’s syncing.

This time a week ago I was cracking my first beer of the day, not minding that it wasn’t yet noon, because the wife and kids wouldn’t be home till 2, so she wouldn’t know what time I started.

This time week ago tomorrow, I was starting a four and a half hour memorial over zoom for my childhood best friend, a hard drinker and wonderful kind soul, with hundreds of people in attendance. His fortieth birthday would have been this past Tuesday. He’s my first friend to die and I spent his memorial sober, so I could hear the stories of how he touched the lives of others. I didn’t drink after the memorial either, though my brother who was also a friend of his invited me out for drinks afterward. I went to bed sober that night, hoping this day one would be THE day one. Not to use my friend as a scared straight story, but that I could honor his memory living soberly the way he might if his accident had been a rock bottom instead of the big one.

In the middle of the night that night there was a knock at the door followed by “Police!” I jumped out of bed and opened the door to two officers asking if my brother was here. I said no. They asked if I knew where he was, I said no. They said they found his car wrecked on the side of the road and the car was registered to my house (he’s moved a lot). Apparently he had walked away from the accident, so that was a relief, but no one knew where he was and his phone went straight to voicemail. They said goodnight and I went out driving from where he wrecked it in the directions he might have walked. Couldn’t find him. At 10am Monday I got a call from his girlfriend saying he had borrowed someone’s phone to call her and she was picking him up, putting him in the shower and putting him to bed, where he slept for nearly 36 hours straight. He had escaped the accident with a sore wrist and broken glasses, no harm to anyone else, and a wrecked 20 year old Camry.

I didn’t mean to make this post about others, that all just came out when I started writing. Today I’m a week sober. I’m finally, slowly waking up from the dream that alcohol makes me happy, to the ugly reality that it’s literally killing people and will kill me if I don’t change course. Alcohol is an addictive poison that will take your life slowly, like it did my friend, or quickly, like it very nearly did my brother. I don’t play around with heroin, despite how wonderful the high sounds, because I know heroin is a one way street. Alcohol is exactly the same, it’s jus

He replied, "Well, stop going to those places then!"

I will find you. You have my Word.

The reason? I wanted to go for my fortieth birthday, particularly to the theme parks, but I am a little worried about doing so because of how irresponsible the Sunshine State is being in handling the pandemic. I fear they may still be a hot spot even by that time, but I hope not.

Hi, I rarely use reddit nowadays but I wanted to pour a little bit of what's in my heart with strangers.

For the most part of my life I have felt lonely. I can barely, if at all, recall parts of my life that are supposed to have made me who I am. I have never been diagnosed with depression but have contemplated harming myself and even worse, never succeeding in attempting it. Right now I'm just shy of 19 yo and like most young people I think I won't see anything after my fortieth birthday.

And as I have said, I have felt lonely, the cold kind of lonely, the one that feels nice on your skin until you can begin to notice the frostbites. And I have felt that way even though I never truly was alone. I've always been good at making friends but I've never felt truly with them. That still is the case.

BUT, I'm not making this post to lament, what I wanted to do was to look back on my life now and look for some uplifting things to say for those who might need it.

I've had many friend over the years, friends of all kinds, and friends I want to spend my life with, as well as friends whose back I had to see get further and further away. And all those friends are people that made is so I wasn't alone, those are friends, that without doing anything besides being people, make me feel human. To me they, even those who left me, are brighter than any sun, and if my hart was a flower I'd like it to bloom when I see them.

And I wish that you can find that happiness. I know so many people are both lonely and alone when they are worth so much more. People will never see how loveable they can be by themselves. The nose you're ashamed of might be the reason why someone has or will notice you, the way you talk might be why some people enjoy listening to you. Just you being you, free from hatred towards yourself and others is the most beautiful you that you will be able to meet, and believe me it is gorgeous.

I can't seem to write in a structured enough manner, but I hope you will understand me. When you stand at the lowest it's easier to look down that it is to look up. But I hope you do, and I hope you're able to see how, sometimes, the light isn't something big but rather the countless little things that make you like the people around you. I wish that, maybe, for you too, when you look in the eyes of those around you, you find brighter stars that in the clearest of the night-sky.

And for those who have see too much of the worst humans can do, I wish that one

I would have a daughter

Part 3

My brother’s been kidnapped. My home has been broken into. My car has been wrecked. I’m really fucking over this night.

I limped and stumbled from the crash for about twenty minutes, and found myself standing outside the house where the party was. The lights were dim, and I could feel the bass thumping.

I walked up to the porch, and noticed that on the stairs there was a white envelope. On the outside was written, “Dear Alyce.” Picking it up, I opened the envelope. There was a card inside. Pulling it out, I could see it said “It’s a Party!” on the front, with colorful balloons, birthday hats, and streamers. Flipping it over, there was a brief note:

>You finally made it and with nary a moment to spare,
Rush inside and find the kitchen, if you dare.
It’s a party, and we’re going all out,
You’ll have so much fun it’ll make you shout.
Look for a package with a pretty bow.
Surprise! It’s for you! Now you know.
I know it’s not your birthday (but it’s getting near),
But every party needs presents, or I’d be a bad dear!

Good. More poem-based jackassery. Exactly what I needed.

I folded the card in half and shoved it into my pocket, then I walked into the house.

Strobe lights made my first steps disorienting. That, or the possible concussion. Each step I took made a squelching noise, as my shoes briefly stuck in the coating of spilled beer. Some unidentifiable song was playing, but all I could really hear was the bass, which was so powerful it was making the picture frames on the walls vibrate.

The only thing that was missing: people.

The party was completely deserted.

I walked through the living room and headed to the back of the house, where I figured the kitchen would be. And, sure enough, I found a dark room that had the kitchen smell to it. I fumbled around for a light switch, and finally got the lights on.

Standard middle-class kitchen. Nicer than what I was used to, but not fancy-ass black metal knives fancy. If that’s a thing.

In the middle of the kitchen was a small table, and on it sat a long box with ribbon and a bow.

“What the fuck…”

This shit was beyond weird. But they have Stu, so I’ll play their stupid game.

Walking up to the table, I slid the box closer to me.

Hefty.

Someone got me something with some weight to it. That did not make me feel better.

I undid the bow and slid the ribbon down so that I cou

Part 3

My brother’s been kidnapped. My home has been broken into. My car has been wrecked. I’m really fucking over this night.

I limped and stumbled from the crash for about twenty minutes, and found myself standing outside the house where the party was. The lights were dim, and I could feel the bass thumping.

I walked up to the porch, and noticed that on the stairs there was a white envelope. On the outside was written, “Dear Alyce.” Picking it up, I opened the envelope. There was a card inside. Pulling it out, I could see it said “It’s a Party!” on the front, with colorful balloons, birthday hats, and streamers. Flipping it over, there was a brief note:

>You finally made it and with nary a moment to spare,
Rush inside and find the kitchen, if you dare.
It’s a party, and we’re going all out,
You’ll have so much fun it’ll make you shout.
Look for a package with a pretty bow.
Surprise! It’s for you! Now you know.
I know it’s not your birthday (but it’s getting near),
But every party needs presents, or I’d be a bad dear!

Good. More poem-based jackassery. Exactly what I needed.

I folded the card in half and shoved it into my pocket, then I walked into the house.

Strobe lights made my first steps disorienting. That, or the possible concussion. Each step I took made a squelching noise, as my shoes briefly stuck in the coating of spilled beer. Some unidentifiable song was playing, but all I could really hear was the bass, which was so powerful it was making the picture frames on the walls vibrate.

The only thing that was missing: people.

The party was completely deserted.

I walked through the living room and headed to the back of the house, where I figured the kitchen would be. And, sure enough, I found a dark room that had the kitchen smell to it. I fumbled around for a light switch, and finally got the lights on.

Standard middle-class kitchen. Nicer than what I was used to, but not fancy-ass black metal knives fancy. If that’s a thing.

In the middle of the kitchen was a small table, and on it sat a long box with ribbon and a bow.

“What the fuck…”

This shit was beyond weird. But they have Stu, so I’ll play their stupid game.

Walking up to the table, I slid the box closer to me.

Hefty.

Someone got me something with some weight to it. That did not make me feel better.

I undid the bow and slid the ribbon down so that I cou

My brother’s been kidnapped. My home has been broken into. My car has been wrecked. I’m really fucking over this night.

I limped and stumbled from the crash for about twenty minutes, and found myself standing outside the house where the party was. The lights were dim, and I could feel the bass thumping.

I walked up to the porch, and noticed that on the stairs there was a white envelope. On the outside was written, “Dear Alyce.” Picking it up, I opened the envelope. There was a card inside. Pulling it out, I could see it said “It’s a Party!” on the front, with colorful balloons, birthday hats, and streamers. Flipping it over, there was a brief note:

>You finally made it and with nary a moment to spare,
>
>Rush inside and find the kitchen, if you dare.
>
>It’s a party, and we’re going all out,
>
>You’ll have so much fun it’ll make you shout.
>
>Look for a package with a pretty bow.
>
>Surprise! It’s for you! Now you know.
>
>I know it’s not your birthday (but it’s getting near),
>
>But every party needs presents, or I’d be a bad dear!

Good. More poem-based jackassery. Exactly what I needed.

I folded the card in half and shoved it into my pocket, then I walked into the house.

Strobe lights made my first steps disorienting. That, or the possible concussion. Each step I took made a squelching noise, as my shoes briefly stuck in the coating of spilled beer. Some unidentifiable song was playing, but all I could really hear was the bass, which was so powerful it was making the picture frames on the walls vibrate.

The only thing that was missing: people.

The party was completely deserted.

I walked through the living room and headed to the back of the house, where I figured the kitchen would be. And, sure enough, I found a dark room that had the kitchen smell to it. I fumbled around for a light switch, and finally got the lights on.

Standard middle-class kitchen. Nicer than what I was used to, but not fancy-ass black metal knives fancy. If that’s a thing.

In the middle of the kitchen was a small table, and on it sat a long box with ribbon and a bow.

“What the fuck…”

This shit was beyond weird. But they have Stu, so I’ll play their stupid game.

Walking up to the table, I slid the box closer to me.

Hefty.

Someone got me something with some weight to it. That did not make me feel

Part 3

My brother’s been kidnapped. My home has been broken into. My car has been wrecked. I’m really fucking over this night.

I limped and stumbled from the crash for about twenty minutes, and found myself standing outside the house where the party was. The lights were dim, and I could feel the bass thumping.

I walked up to the porch, and noticed that on the stairs there was a white envelope. On the outside was written, “Dear Alyce.” Picking it up, I opened the envelope. There was a card inside. Pulling it out, I could see it said “It’s a Party!” on the front, with colorful balloons, birthday hats, and streamers. Flipping it over, there was a brief note:

>You finally made it and with nary a moment to spare,
Rush inside and find the kitchen, if you dare.
It’s a party, and we’re going all out,
You’ll have so much fun it’ll make you shout.
Look for a package with a pretty bow.
Surprise! It’s for you! Now you know.
I know it’s not your birthday (but it’s getting near),
But every party needs presents, or I’d be a bad dear!

Good. More poem-based jackassery. Exactly what I needed.

I folded the card in half and shoved it into my pocket, then I walked into the house.

Strobe lights made my first steps disorienting. That, or the possible concussion. Each step I took made a squelching noise, as my shoes briefly stuck in the coating of spilled beer. Some unidentifiable song was playing, but all I could really hear was the bass, which was so powerful it was making the picture frames on the walls vibrate.

The only thing that was missing: people.

The party was completely deserted.

I walked through the living room and headed to the back of the house, where I figured the kitchen would be. And, sure enough, I found a dark room that had the kitchen smell to it. I fumbled around for a light switch, and finally got the lights on.

Standard middle-class kitchen. Nicer than what I was used to, but not fancy-ass black metal knives fancy. If that’s a thing.

In the middle of the kitchen was a small table, and on it sat a long box with ribbon and a bow.

“What the fuck…”

This shit was beyond weird. But they have Stu, so I’ll play their stupid game.

Walking up to the table, I slid the box closer to me.

Hefty.

Someone got me something with some weight to it. That did not make me feel better.

I undid the bow and slid the ribbon down so that I cou

And then you will all be sorry.

She said how do you know he was headed to work?