Everybody Dies
by Jim Munroe (2008)
Genres: Fantasy

It starts with a metalhead, Graham, realizing that throwing that shopping cart over the bridge was not the great idea he thought it was. Even if it did get him out of washroom duty at Cost Cutters.

action: %
response: Beats the fuck out of cleaning toilets.

Shopping cart duty gets me outta the store for a while, which is cool even on a shit day like today. It's that gross, grey slush that gets me talking about just moving down to California this time every year -- hey, they need groceries bagged down there too, don't they?

Mom usually agrees with me, but this morning she said that the Mexicans got all those jobs down there. Way to piss on my dreams, Mom. But she's been bitchy ever since the fire in the basement. Whatev. These things happen.
Everybody Dies

Type CREDITS for the full credits, HELP if you need it, and QUIT to exit the game.

At least outside I can smoke. With all the cars puking exhaust behind me it's not like anyone can complain.

The Rouge River's kind of awesome from the bridge, its strong and heavy current making it look like a sea snake. Brutal. I like how then when I'm looking at it I can't see Cost Cutters, even though it's directly west. Means I can forget about work for a while.

East of here is the neighbourhood where most of our customers come from.
What was that?
What was that?
action: About yourself
response: I'm Graham, your standard variety skid, rocker, or metalhead depending on which suburb you grew up in.

The river's really raging today. The water level's so high I can barely see the shopping cart. Actually, is it even there? Did the Indian kid get that one too?

Oh, wait, there it is. Thank fuck. Lisa'll have me cleaning toilets all month if I come back empty handed.

I finish my smoke and flick the butt over the edge. I imagine it hitting the river below with a gnarly pssssshhhht.
action: You look at what you're carrying with you
response: I am carrying:
a pair of jeans (being worn)
a sweatshirt (being worn)
a pack of Gauloise cigarettes
a matchbook
a lumberjack jacket (being worn)
a pair of Kodiaks (being worn)
action: You look at the Kodiaks
response: Got 'em the summer I was working planting trees. Worst job ever, but the boots are awesome.
action: You examine the jeans
response: These guys have been getting looser every year, but I've been gettin' bigger so they're still as tight as they were when I got 'em at nineteen.
action: You examine the matchbook
response: Purple, with OOOH LA LA printed on the side. It's out of matches.
action: You examine River
response: It winds through the ravine, kind of a charcoal grey with all the runoff. The cart's wheels are just visible as a far-away glint.
action: You look at the cart
response: It's waaaaay down there.
action: You get the cart
response: I can barely see it, it's that far off.
action: You go to the east
response: Naw, the new Indian kid cleaned out the 'hood yesterday. Heard he came back with something like eighteen carts. I am gonna have to have a talk with him -- he's making the rest of us look bad.
action: Go downwards
response: The visible exits are east and west.
action: You go west
response: The bridge rail stops here and the brush takes over. It's pretty thick, but I know there's a path north that goes down to the river. I could find my way there shitfaced... who am I kidding, I always found my way there 'faced.

Further west is Cost Cutters.

Across the road the guy from the city is in his little go-cart clearing the snow off the sidewalk. He gives me a chin nod and I do the same. Don't know him but it's the Mustache Brotherhood.

They motor on those things. Next time I look up he's gone.
action: You examine the brush
response: A brambly overgrown mess.
action: You go to the north
response: Shit's so overgrown that for a second I'm like, maybe I have to be wasted to find the Pit, maybe it's got some kind of magical... But then I find it.

Everything's got a wet blanket of snow on it but I can make out the log we usually sat on, the little hole where we'd burn shit, and feel the crinkle of an empty under my Kodiak.

It's been a couple years since I came out here -- fuck, must have been two years ago, 'cause Ricky left for school that fall. We were celebrating my first Cutters pay cheque with our friend Jack Daniels and we ran into the cart in the dark and we decided to push it over the bridge into the river.

I was like, it'll be awesome, it'll be my get-out-of-jail free card. Like if it's a great day I can always say I saw one of our carts in the river. My ace in the hole.

Ricky was like, your ass has a hole? Why you telling me that? Faaaaag.

The river's louder than the cars down here, just to the east.
action: You take empty
response: I came out here to AVOID cleaning, dude.
action: You examine empty
response: It's an Export. Dunno if I can go back to Ex after drinking Fin du Monde... but I probably can.
action: You take log
response: Naw. It's basically log-shaped mud now.
action: You go east
response: Yeah. Wow. That is one serious fucking river. I'm getting wet just standing near it. The wheels of the cart are just visible a good piece to the east. The water would be nearly up to my waist if I was dumb enough to enter it.

The bottom of the bridge is high above, festooned with graffiti.
action: You examine graffiti
response: The graffiti is nothing special, though the taggers must have had to hang over the edge to do their thing.

They're lucky they weren't doing it the night we threw the cart over the rail.
action: You examine the cart
response: It's well out of reach, in the river to the east.
action: Swim
response: I'm no expert, but... don't you need to be in a bunch of water for that?
action: You enter the water
response: Seriously? I'm no pussy, but... seems dangerous.
action: Continue
response: Alright, voice-in-my-head. If anything happens, it's your fault.

I wade into the river.

Holy fuck is it cold. Goes from bad to worse. Boots: soaked. Jeans: soaked.

The shopping cart is submerged in the river here, a lot rustier and grottier than when I saw it last.
action: You remove the jeans
response: Hey, I put together this ensemble for a reason, dude.
action: You take the cart
response: It's stuck there pretty good, but I manage to flip it over. A bunch of other crap that was trapped comes up too, and floats to the surface: six pack rings, something that looks like a clump of hair, and a fish.

Pretty gross.

I can't feel my nads any more, but I've got the stupid cart.
action: You go to the west
response: I start to pull the cart out of the river, but it pushes all the crap my way too. The fish kind of flips over and it's much worse on the other side -- it's got a huge hole eaten in it, and I can see into its stomach. And I'm pretty sure what's in the fish is another fish that it's eaten.

I can't take my eyes away. I tell myself that it would make an amazingly brutal tat or even an album cover but I also feel like I'm gonna hurl. And then I see the little fish, the one inside, open its eye.

I sort of stumble back away from the cart but at this point my legs are so numb that the cart is the only thing that's holding me up.

So I fall.

It's a slow, fat-assed falling, and I'm kind of pissed at myself and finding it kind of hilarious at the same time, thinking about how I'll tell Mom about it when my head hits the rock.

*** YOU HAVE DIED ***

And yet, somehow, the game continues.
action: About yourself
response: There is no action here. Only waiting.
action: You wait for a while
response: Time passes.

The void is definitely taking on a porcelain texture.

I am looking down on a toilet.

I don't feel like myself. In fact, I'm sure my forearms weren't as... dark as that, last time I looked. Or as skinny.
action: About yourself
response: There's a toilet here. The exit's to the southeast.

I catch a glimpse of something moving in the toilet water.
action: You look at the toilet
response: For a second, I see what looks like a tiny fish tail and then it disappears.
action: About you
response: Uh, my name's Ranni. Sikh family. Almost old enough to drive.
action: Inventory
response: I am carrying:
black work slacks (being worn)
an apron (being worn)
a kirpan (being worn)
a Cost Cutters golf shirt (being worn)
action: You look at kirpan
response: It's my ceremonial dagger. I'm a Sikh, OK? It's my religion.
action: You examine the apron
response: It was clean at the beginning of the shift. Not so much now.
action: Go outside
response: Fortunately for the shoppers, and unfortunately for us who have to clean up after them, Cost Cutters has a public washroom.

I've managed to avoid cleaning duty up 'til now by going on cart duty -- which had the added bonus of getting me away from that psycho Patrick -- but today the slobby old guy (Graham, I think his name is) pulled one over on our manager Lisa and now here I am.

There is a pair of sinks, a long mirror above them and three battered stalls to the northwest, north and northeast. The exit's south of here.
action: You look at the shirt
response: One of those ones with the logo embroidered on it. Lisa has her name embroidered on it too, but I don't know if she got that when she became manager or if she did it herself because she's really into her job.
action: You examine the mirror
response: I check myself out in the chipped and scratched mirror. Even with the cheesy work shirt, my new haircut looks sharp: I got some lines buzzed on my sides. I thought the b-boys at my school might hassle me for biting their style but nothing yet.
action: You go north
response: This toilet is dingy. The exit's to the south.
action: You look at the toilet
response: It looks cleaner -- oh god, there's a floater. I avert my eyes and flush.

People are animals.
action: Clean toilet
response: I adjust my kirpan so that it doesn't poke me.

Thinking about the car I'm gonna get the day I turn 16, I start scrubbing. My dad would hate to know I was doing this -- he just wouldn't say "untouchable" because we're all supposed to be equal, but he'd be thinking it. Then he'd probably start in on the turban thing again... he doesn't know how hard it is to get a job, any job.
action: You look at the toilet
response: Thank god, it went down in one flush.
action: You look at the toilet
response: A clean and empty bowl.
action: Go northeast
response: This toilet has a crack in it. The exit's to the southwest.
action: You look at the toilet
response: Oh wait, that's not a crack. It's a... streak.
action: Clean toilet
response: Picturing myself cleaning my car-to-be on a summer day -- specifically the one I saw for super cheap on Craigslist today -- I manage to wipe the streaks off.

Done. Finally, I can get out of here.

I get up, but before I can leave I hear someone come in.

"So Lisa sent me to help you, brown noser..."

That racist shithead Patrick must be right outside the stall from the sound of it.

"I tol' her that you dirty pakis like scrubbing up shit, but she didn't care. Mmm-mmm. I think she's got a bit of sand nigger fever."

I hear the adjoining stall door shut. "Better check out this toilet," I can hear Patrick heading into one of the stalls.
action: You listen
response: I hear nothing unexpected.

"Ohhhh man," Patrick crows from the stall, followed by a juicy braaaaap.
action: Go south
response: The only visible exit is southwest (to cost cutters bathroom).
action: You go to the southwest
response: Patrick kicks the stall door open, buckling up. The bastard doesn't even flush.

"Left ya a present, brown noser," he says. He imitates the intercom: "Clean up in stall 3."

I'm not inclined to get mad. I've lost my temper twice, maybe three times in my life. But then the smell hits me like a slap. I look at his horrible, scarred face and his idiotic grin as he waits for me to react, and I'm amazed that I'm keeping it together.

Something causes his eyes to flick down to my waist, and then his smile vanishes. I look down and realize that after I finished cleaning I hadn't returned my kirpan to its usual position, so it's making my apron poke out a bit.

"What's that," he says, not really asking. I've got to show him or hide it.
action: You hide kirpan
response: As I turn around to adjust it, I hear Patrick gagging in disgust.

"Is that a boner?"

I turn around to explain, but he's already at the doorway on his way out.

"The sound of me shitting gave you a boner? You're--" And then he's gone.

It's weird. It wasn't true, but just the fact that he thought that makes me ashamed in the pit of my stomach.
action: Clean toilet
response: It's already clean.
action: You look at the toilet
response: Thank god, it went down in one flush.
action: You look at the toilet
response: The crack/streak is gone, and it's clean.
action: You go northwest
response: There's a toilet here. The exit's to the southeast. What a shitsplosion. God, Patrick is a diseased animal.
action: You clean it
response: Patrick has been downright artistic. He's managed to get shit on every part of the toilet except for the water.

He's sharpied a swastika on the stall wall but he's gotten it backwards. Which, ironically, makes it a Hindu symbol.

I imagine running him over in my new car again and again until the job is finished.
action: You look at the toilet
response: A clean and empty bowl.
action: You go to the southeast
response: I step out of the stall to see Patrick standing there silently.

He has a look on his face like I've never seen before. He's not going to... apologize, is he?

Behind him Lisa, the manager shows up. She looks reluctant to step into the washroom -- probably because it's the Men's.

"Ranni, is it true you made a lewd gesture towards Patrick?"

Oh, crap.

"I'll have to refer to the chapter on sexual harassment in the training manual--" She looks downright hurt by the situation.

I notice Patrick move suddenly. There is a gun in his hand.

"Fucking sick fuck," he says, right before he shoots me.
action: You examine Patrick
response: I try, but a coughed-up blood bubble is the best I can do.

I can't move.

I think I'm on the floor. I must have fallen. I can feel water pooling against my face from somewhere. Or is that water?

Patrick leans over me, his face a wasteland of acne. "What, getting shot doesn't give you a hard-on too?"

Lisa is screaming, screaming. Patrick's head whips her way. I hear a pop and the screaming stops.

I close my eyes.

*** YOU HAVE DIED ***

And yet...
action: Wait
response: Time passes.
action: Inventory
response: There is no action here. Only waiting.

I open my eyes.

I'm looking down on a river. I immediately think: Styx. I mean, I knew I was gonna miss out on the virgins not being Islam but how'd I end up in white-person hell? And where would I get money for the boatman? I remembered something about coins from my English class...

They put 'em on your eyes, I hear a familiar voice say. But that's not the River Styx, as brutally awesome as that would be.

But a few seconds later I hear the cars behind me, and I realize the voice is right. It's just the...

I walk over this bridge every day to get to Cost Cutters, to the west, but I just recently noticed that it crossed a river. To the east is my neighbourhood.

There's a neat little train of shopping carts on the sidewalk here.
action: About yourself
response: Uh, my name's Ranni. Sikh family. Almost old enough to drive.

There's something weird here.

Then it occurs to me: no snow.

It snowed last night.

No, it snowed tomorrow night, another voice in my head says. A woman's voice, this time.
action: You examine the carts
response: The shopping carts are pushed into the backs of each other to form a train 3 carts long.
action: You examine River
response: It's funny I've passed over this a million times going to school and work without stopping to look at it, but I guess I usually have my music on.

Graham makes an impatient noise but Lisa shushes him.
action: You look at Graham
response: He's got a mustache, and always seems to be going out for a smoke instead of working.
action: You examine Lisa
response: She's pretty, but she's way older than me. Seventeen at least.
action: You ask Lisa about the carts
response: We're prohibited from giving you advice, Lisa says as if she's reading from a Cost Cutters manual.
action: Go east
response: I wander around the neighbourhood laneways and find a cart wedged between two houses.

I return to the bridge with it.
action: You go to the east
response: I run into a friend's mom and ask her if she's seen any carts, and she sheepishly gives up one from her garage. "Otherwise I always get one with a stuck wheel," she explains.

I trundle it over to the other carts on the bridge.
action: You go to the east
response: Some kids are using one on its side as a street hockey net. They claim it's theirs until I point to the Cost Cutters logo.

I add it to the cart train on the bridge.
action: You go to the east
response: I've cleared out the neighbourhood. Maybe that's all there is?

One more, Lisa's voice echoes in my head. Just not in the neighbourhood.
action: Go west
response: Once I saw a pretty bad accident here. It put me off cycling forever.

Further west is the Cost Cutters building, the bridge is back east. The way north is barred by pretty dense brush.
action: You go west
response: Call me weird, but I'm not anxious to go back to the place I died. Might as well get the job done first.
action: You go east
response: I walk over this bridge every day to get to Cost Cutters, to the west, but I just recently noticed that it crossed a river. To the east is my neighbourhood.

There's a neat little train of shopping carts on the sidewalk here.
action: You examine River
response: It's funny I've passed over this a million times going to school and work without stopping to look at it, but I guess I usually have my music on.

Graham makes an impatient noise but Lisa shushes him.
action: GRAHAM, ,LOOK AT RIVER
response: I feel my eyes focus on a section of river -- is that a glint of steel?

There's a cart down there! How the heck did it...?

Doesn't matter how, interrupts Graham. That's our ace in the hole. We just have to play it earlier in the game.
action: LISA, ,EXAMINE RIVER
response: Lisa peers through my eyes...

It's just a grey blur to me. I can't really see that far -- my eyes aren't the best.

...my eyes are my own again.
action: You examine the cart
response: Which do I mean, the faroff shopping cart or the shopping cart train?
action: Go north
response: I gotta get down to the river if I'm going to get that cart, so I push through the brush. Pretty quickly I find a trail that leads to...

The trail continues east to the river, and I can return back to civilization to the south.

There's a bunch of empty beer cans and a pit for a fire.
action: You look at the cans
response: Maybe some hoboes might have lived here.

Nerd! Graham hisses for some reason. I ignore him.
action: You take log
response: Naw. It's basically log-shaped mud now.
action: GRAHAM, ,EXAMINE PIT
response: Graham peers through my eyes...

Ah, the firepit that gave the Pit its name. Some McDonald's bags, newspapers, a lighter and a can of hairspray and, foomp! You had yerself some instant ambiance.

...my eyes are my own again.
action: LISA, ,EXAMINE PIT
response: Lisa peers through my eyes...

...my eyes are my own again.
action: LISA, ,LOOK AT EMPTY
response: Lisa peers through my eyes...

A bunch of trash. People have no respect for nature.

...my eyes are my own again.
action: You take empty
response: It smells rank, even from here.
action: GRAHAM, ,LOOK AT EMPTY
response: Graham peers through my eyes...

It's an Export. Dunno if I can go back to Ex after drinking Fin du Monde... but I probably can.

...my eyes are my own again.
action: GRAHAM, ,EXAMINE LOG
response: Graham peers through my eyes...

It beat sitting on the ground, but not by much.

...my eyes are my own again.
action: Go east
response: It's more impressive up close, just to the east, but it ain't no Ganges.

Graham chimes in: Dude, it's reeeeally cold --

Colder than being dead forever, Graham? Lisa snaps.

Just brace yourself.
action: GRAHAM, ,EXAMINE RIVER
response: Graham peers through my eyes...

It winds through the ravine, kind of a charcoal grey with all the runoff.

...my eyes are my own again.
action: LISA, ,EXAMINE RIVER
response: Lisa peers through my eyes...

It's just a grey blur to me. I can't really see that far -- my eyes aren't the best.

...my eyes are my own again.
action: You look at the bridge
response: The graffiti on the bridge is just tags, pretty boring compared to some of the burners I've seen in Scarborough.
action: You go east
response: Graham was not lying. It's painfully cold.

Land awaits to the west.

You can see a rusty shopping cart here.
action: You take the cart
response: I yank it up from the river bed and manage to flip it over. A dead fish and some other debris floats up.

OK, I almost forgot, the fish --

The fish flips over, and it's rotted through. There's a smaller fish inside, partially digested.

Graham makes a retching sound. Did he just vomit inside my head?

He wouldn't last long in my mom's kitchen.
action: You examine the fish
response: Just a dead fish, the only weird part being that I can see the other fish inside it. Newsflash: fish eat fish.
action: Go west
response: I drag the cart to the side of the river, taking care to leave the debris behind.

It's more impressive up close, just to the east, but it ain't no Ganges. The path winds west from here.
action: You go to the west
response: I trundle the cart up to...

The trail continues east to the river, and I can return back to civilization to the south.

There's a bunch of empty beer cans and a pit for a fire.
action: You go to the south
response: It takes about ten minutes to wrestle the cart to the road.

Once I saw a pretty bad accident here. It put me off cycling forever.

Further west is the Cost Cutters building, the bridge is back east. The way north is barred by pretty dense brush.
action: Go east
response: Ca-chunk! With some effort, I add the rusty cart for a total of 7.

Whoohoo! Lisa says. That's the lot.
action: Wait
response: Time passes.
action: You look at what you're carrying with you
response: There is no action here. Only waiting.
action: You wait for a while
response: The void starts to glow with a familiar unrelenting light -- a fluorescent light -- and I realize I'm in...
action: You look around
response: I'm at work. There are people shopping around me.

Alive! I'm alive! In my own body It was all a --

Dream? interrupts Ranni from somewhere in the back part of my head. No.

Oh, crumbs.

My office is to the south, and the exit is to the east.
action: About yourself
response: Lisa. I'm the manager. I'm pretty normal-looking, but a boy at leadership camp said I was cute without my glasses.
action: Inventory
response: I am carrying:
a pair of glasses (being worn)
dark green work slacks (being worn)
a Cost Cutters blouse (being worn)
action: You examine the people
response: The usual mix: every type of human being except the cute teenaged boy type. Which is good. I need to focus on my job.
action: Go south
response: I start out but immediately am accosted by a customer.

"Excuse me miss," the old man asks. "Is this coupon good here?"

He presses a coupon into my hand.
action: No
response: That was a rhetorical question.
action: You look at the coupon
response: The coupon died on Tuesday. "Sorry sir, but this coupon expired yesterday."

He grabs it back. "What?" He stares at it through his thick glasses. "But it's Monday, isn't it?"

I give him a little smile that lets him know: he's old.

He wanders off, confused.

Graham chuckles. Way to mess with the old coot's head, Lise.
action: Go south
response: I get a few aisles closer this time before a mom and daughter stop me.

"Do both of these have peanuts? My daughter has an allergy."

She hands me a package of Savoury Snax and a package of Peanut Puffs.

Seriously! This is so not my job.
action: You say yes
response: (to the mother)
There is no reply.
action: You look at snax
response: A hideously coloured package with, unfortunately, one word in English, two if you count "Snax". I can't read the ingredients. It looks like birdfood... gross.

It's pretty tasty, actually, says Ranni.
action: You look at Peanut
response: Ingredients: Whole peanuts, peanut paste, vaporized peanuts, peanut dust... I skip to the end where it says. Warning, may contain --

Traces of peanuts? Ranni suggests.

No. Traces of heavy metals.

Bruuuuuuuutal! moans Graham.

I put the Peanut Puffs back on the shelf, far out of the little girl's reach. It quickly disappears into the blur of colourful products.
action: You give Snax to mom
response: I can't. I can't help imagining the little girl choking to death. She looks a bit bratty, but still.
action: GRAHAM, ,EXAMINE SNAX
response: Graham peers through my eyes...

Seriously, what is wrong with this store? You can barely find ketchup and dill pickle potato chips and now they're stocking these, these...

Paki foods? says Ranni.

I was gonna say "weird foods."

...my eyes are my own again.
action: RANNI, ,EXAMINE SNAX
response: That is so cool! The ingredients go from squiggly letters to real letters.

I read them through. Lots of weird stuff and tongue twisters, but no peanuts. I hand it to the mom and she leaves without even thanking me.

People are so rude. That's why I got into being a manager. I hate being on the frontlines.
action: You go south
response: Finally I make it unaccosted to...

Well, OK, it's not just my office. But I've got my nook, a desk in the corner of the staffroom.

The staffroom has lockers along one wall, a soda machine, and a bench.

On the desk is a calendar.
action: Examine calendar
response: IMPENDING is the word for Monday. Monday? But...

It's two days before the shooting, Ranni says impatiently. You gotta get rid of that psycho, Lisa.

Also on the calendar for today is a 4pm locker inspection from central office.

And it is, of course, 4pm.
action: You examine the lockers
response: They're the kind that have the combo locks built into the doors, so central office can access them at any time.

Most of them have clearly printed labels stuck on to indicate their owners: JILL, PATRICK, PAUL, RANNY (this was before I knew it was spelt RANNI, so sue me). GRAHAM, JASON, and my own were all written in the sloppy handwriting of my predecessor.

All of a sudden Tim from main office rushes in.

"I'm soooo late," he says. He unlocks the soda machine and takes a can out, then slams it shut.

Jerkwad. Just 'cause he used to work here he acts like he owns the place. "Um, why do you still have a key for--" I start.

"Gotta check the meat room temp," he says, pulling out a thermometer from his windbreaker. "Back in a jiff. Then I'll do the locker check."

Awww, crapsicles! blurts Graham.

"Won't have time for them all, just the new hires -- Patrick, Ranni and Paul," Tim says on his way out the door.

Thank you, Satan! Graham crows.

What are you so happy about? says Ranni. He said he'd be back in a jiff, and we've got to make sure Patrick gets canned today before he gets back!
action: You examine the desk
response: It's a big clunky beast left by my predecessor. Other than a nasty paint stain, the only thing on it is the word-a-day calendar.
action: You examine the stain
response: From Tim's time. He has no respect for Cost Cutters property.
action: You open the patrick's locker
response: I don't know the combo, and they're not in today so I can't ask them. Of course, main office has all the combinations.
action: You open the ranni's locker
response: My hands move of their own (well, I guess, of Ranni's) accord and flick through the combination.

Ranni's locker has his work slacks, a balled up apron and the WHMIS safety regulations taped to his door.

Graham snorts at this. Mr. Worky-work.

It's my work locker! Ranni retorts. What, I'm supposed to have a, a, six pack of beers in there or something?

Graham is silent. (Shocker!)

I shut the locker.
action: You open the graham's locker
response: Nope, Graham says.

Just open it! Ranni says, as exasperated as I feel.

Sorry, kids, ain't gonna happen.

I shake the locked door, noticing as I do that there's some kind of smell coming from the door vents.
action: You smell it
response: That's weird. It smells like my brother's room in the basement. He always keeps it locked, too.
action: You smell the graham's locker
response: I can't be that hands-on, Graham says. But two pairs of eyes are better than one.
action: You open the lisa's locker
response: I unlock it. Inside are my school bag and my normal clothes including --

Mmm, black lacy bra, Graham says, I never would have figured you--

I slam the locker shut and ignore Graham's creepy laugh.

Tim bustles in and counts the lockers and looks up the combos. "Paul..." he starts twirling the combos. "It's not Paul Sorenson, is it? Come back for another hitch?"

"No, it's Chin. Paul Chin."

"It wouldn't be, it wouldn't be. Be in his twenties now. But that guy was hilarious -- he would just crack -- us -- up!"

He yanks the door open. It's empty except for an apron with a nametag and a book called World War Z. He flips through it, staring at it intently, before throwing it back and shutting the locker.
action: You open the patrick's locker
response: Believe me, if I start talking to him he'll start talking about the good ol' days when "managment was of a different quality." He actually said that. Best to just wait the old windbag out.

"OK, Ranni, let's see what you got hiding... yeah, the neighbourhood, the neighbourhood's really changed," Tim laments, opening Ranni's locker.

Yeah. Everything was sooo much better when he worked here, for one.

I don't think that's what he means, says Ranni.

Tim checks the pockets of Ranni's work clothes and looks approvingly at the WHMIS regs taped to the door.

He finishes his inspection and shuts the locker.
action: You look at Tim
response: He's a gawky guy with a bright orange Cost Cutters windbreaker.

Tim opens Patrick's locker. I look over his shoulder to see if I can spot the gun, but the only thing in it is a magazine.

Tim picks it up -- it's an issue of Glocks and Grenades -- and flips through it. For a second he seems to be disturbed, and I have a flicker of hope that he's gonna fire Patrick.

"Don't know... if I have this issue..." he says, looking at the front. "Maybe my subscription's run out."

He tosses it back in and shuts the locker.

I guess he doesn't bring the gun in til tomorrow, says Ranni.

Well, there goes the only chance to change what happened, says Graham.

*** WE DIED FOR GOOD ***

This time there's no visit to the Void. Tim disappears, I feel a nauseating flip in my stomach and I find myself moved a few feet away but still in...

Well, OK, it's not just my office. But I've got my nook, a desk in the corner of the staffroom.

The staffroom has lockers along one wall, a soda machine, and a bench.

On the desk is a calendar.
action: About yourself
response: Lisa. I'm the manager. I'm pretty normal-looking, but a boy at leadership camp said I was cute without my glasses.

All of a sudden Tim from main office rushes in.

"I'm soooo late," he says. He unlocks the soda machine and takes a can out, then slams it shut. Soooo predictable.

"Gotta check the meat room temp," he says, pulling out a thermometer from his windbreaker. "Back in a jiff. Then I'll do the locker check. Just the new hires -- Patrick, Ranni and Paul," he says on his way out the door.

OK, don't fuck it up this time, Lisa. We don't know if we've got unlimited lives, or what, says Graham.

And we've got like, nine-tenths of a jiff left, says Ranni.
action: You open the graham's locker
response: Ranni has better things to do.
action: You open the graham's locker
response: Nope, Graham says.

Just open it! Ranni says, as exasperated as I feel.

Sorry, kids, ain't gonna happen.

I shake the locked door, noticing as I do that there's some kind of smell coming from the door vents.
action: You ask Graham about the pot
response: Sorry man, I can't just tell you what to do, Graham says. There're these stupid rules.
action: You open the ranni's locker
response: My hands move of their own (well, I guess, of Ranni's) accord and flick through the combination.

Ranni's locker has his work slacks, a balled up apron and the WHMIS safety regulations taped to his door.

Graham snorts at this. Mr. Worky-work.

It's my work locker! Ranni retorts. What, I'm supposed to have a, a, six pack of beers in there or something?

Graham is silent. (Shocker!)

I shut the locker.
action: You open the ranni's locker
response: I don't know his combo.

I don't really know the numbers, either, says Ranni. My hands just do it automatically now.
action: You examine the lockers
response: They're the kind that have the combo locks built into the doors, so central office can access them at any time.

Most of them have clearly printed labels stuck on to indicate their owners: JILL, PATRICK, PAUL, RANNY (this was before I knew it was spelt RANNI, so sue me). GRAHAM, JASON, and my own were all written in the sloppy handwriting of my predecessor.
action: You take the graham's label
response: The label's been there for a few years, so some of the glue's dried up. I manage to get it off without ripping it.

Taken.
action: You take the patrick's label
response: It was applied so recently it peels off smoothly.

Taken.

Tim bustles in and counts the lockers and looks up the combos. "Paul..." he starts twirling the combos. "It's not Paul Sorenson, is it? Come back for another hitch?"

"No, it's Chin. Paul Chin."

"It wouldn't be, it wouldn't be. Be in his twenties now. But that guy was hilarious -- he would just crack -- us -- up!"

He yanks the door open. It's empty except for an apron with a nametag and a book called World War Z. He flips through it, staring at it intently, before throwing it back and shutting the locker.
action: You put the patrick's label on the graham's locker
response: But Tim would totally see me!

"OK, Ranni, let's see what you got hiding... yeah, the neighbourhood, the neighbourhood's really changed," Tim laments, opening Ranni's locker.

Yeah. Everything was sooo much better when he worked here, for one.

I don't think that's what he means, says Ranni.

Tim checks the pockets of Ranni's work clothes and looks approvingly at the WHMIS regs taped to the door.

He finishes his inspection and shuts the locker.
action: You put the patrick's label on the graham's locker
response: But Tim would totally see me!

"Can't see a locker for this Patrick McGuire here," Tim says. "Oh well, I'm sure it's fine."

I am shocked speechless by his lack of professionalism as he sails out the door.

I guess he doesn't bring the gun in til tomorrow, says Ranni.

Well, there goes the only chance to change what happened, says Graham.

*** WE DIED FOR GOOD ***

This time there's no visit to the Void. Tim disappears, I feel a nauseating flip in my stomach and I find myself moved a few feet away but still in...

Well, OK, it's not just my office. But I've got my nook, a desk in the corner of the staffroom.

The staffroom has lockers along one wall, a soda machine, and a bench.

On the desk is a calendar.
action: You take the patrick's label
response: Taken.

All of a sudden Tim from main office rushes in.

"I'm soooo late," he says. He unlocks the soda machine and takes a can out, then slams it shut. Soooo predictable.

"Gotta check the meat room temp," he says, pulling out a thermometer from his windbreaker. "Back in a jiff. Then I'll do the locker check. Just the new hires -- Patrick, Ranni and Paul," he says on his way out the door.

OK, don't fuck it up this time, Lisa. We don't know if we've got unlimited lives, or what, says Graham.

And we've got like, nine-tenths of a jiff left, says Ranni.
action: You take the graham's label
response: Taken.
action: You put the patrick's label on the graham's locker
response: I put Patrick's label on Graham's locker.
action: You put the graham's label on patrick's locker
response: I put Graham's label on Patrick's locker.
action: You wait
response: Time passes.

Tim bustles in and counts the lockers and looks up the combos. "Paul..." he starts twirling the combos. "It's not Paul Sorenson, is it? Come back for another hitch?"

"No, it's Chin. Paul Chin."

"It wouldn't be, it wouldn't be. Be in his twenties now. But that guy was hilarious -- he would just crack -- us -- up!"

He yanks the door open. It's empty except for an apron with a nametag and a book called World War Z. He flips through it, staring at it intently, before throwing it back and shutting the locker.
action: You wait for a while
response: Time passes.

"OK, Ranni, let's see what you got hiding... yeah, the neighbourhood, the neighbourhood's really changed," Tim laments, opening Ranni's locker.

Yeah. Everything was sooo much better when you worked here, Tim.

I don't think that's what he means, says Ranni.

Tim checks the pockets of Ranni's work clothes and looks approvingly at the WHMIS regs taped to the door.

He finishes his inspection and shuts the locker.
action: Wait
response: Time passes.

Tim opens "Patrick's" locker and immediately grabs a big garbage bag. "What the heck...?"

He opens the bag and the smell fills the room. "I do believe we have ourselves some Wacky Tobacccy, Lisa."

The grin on his face is positively wolfish. Within seconds he's talking to the police on the phone.

Patrick is sooooo fired.

Fired? Graham says. For a bale like that he's going to juvie.

What the hell do you need that much weed for, anyway? Ranni says.

The grow-op in my mom's basement caught fire, one of the lamps, Graham says, I needed to store the stuff I salvaged somewhere.

An unbelievable ending to an unbelievable day. The cops show up and then Patrick shows up and then Patrick's scary uncle shows up -- a big nightmare, needless to say.

But you know what I thought when I was locking up for the night? Could have been worse. Nobody died.
action: Kiss tim
response: I should keep my mind on the game.

Tim opens "Patrick's" locker and immediately grabs a big garbage bag. "What the heck...?"

He opens the bag and the smell fills the room. "I do believe we have ourselves some Wacky Tobacccy, Lisa."

The grin on his face is positively wolfish. Within seconds he's talking to the police on the phone.

Patrick is sooooo fired.

Fired? Graham says. For a bale like that he's going to juvie.

What the hell do you need that much weed for, anyway? Ranni says.

The grow-op in my mom's basement caught fire, one of the lamps, Graham says, I needed to store the stuff I salvaged somewhere.

An unbelievable ending to an unbelievable day. The cops show up and then Patrick shows up and then Patrick's scary uncle shows up -- a big nightmare, needless to say.

But you know what I thought when I was locking up for the night? Could have been worse. Nobody died.
action: You check what you're carrying
response: I am carrying:
Graham's label
a pair of glasses (being worn)
dark green work slacks (being worn)
a Cost Cutters blouse (being worn)
action: You get jill's label
response: It's like part of the metal now. Can't get it off without ripping it.