Do-Over CYOA
Do-Over CYOA In more ways than one, even. Premise First off, it’s dark. Second, it’s fucking cold. Third, you’re lying down, and you kinda feel like puking. That was right. There was that party, then that happened, then you had to leave before everyone beat you up, and then you had to drown your sorrows something fierce. As you slowly come to your senses again, it gets clear to you that you evidently decided to lie down and take a nap on a bench in the city center – it’s a wonder that you haven’t gotten mugged yet, really. It must be about 4 in the morning, and you’re still pretty drunk from how you’re feeling – not stupidly so, but you don’t want to drive. Shit, and just as you wanted to get home before dawn. Someone sits down beside you with a nonchalance that kinda creeps you out, just sinking onto the bench without a word. Drunkenly rising up to see who the hell it is, you feel a man’s hand pressing lightly down on your head. “Aye, you don’t need to do that. You wanna listen to me now. Don’t get too curious, or you’ll waste a big chance, mate.” The voice is a man’s – he’s perhaps in his twenties or thirties, with a hair-raisingly thick urban London accent. You hear him lighting a cigarette and exhaling in relief after the first drag. “Fact of the matter is, I’ve come here to make you a big offer.
[Show full text]