Party Foul
Brooks Reeves
escape female protagonist on Jay Is Games parser party
You're cornered, trapped. There seems to be no escape. You aren't in a jail cell. No, you're in the cocktail party from hell and only by using your wits and luck are you going to get out of this suburb alive.
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You were helpless. She cornered you at the grocery store between the honeydew and the squash. "Amy dear! How are you?" she asked. And before you knew it she had invited you to a party at her house later that night.

You couldn't say no. Nobody says no to Abbey Fincher, neighborhood watch president and queen of the cocktail party.

It was supposed to be a short visit. Fifteen minutes and out. But here you are, two hours later roped into a never-ending conversation with Frank Quinlivan. God knows where your husband, Mark, is. As you stand mere feet from the front door, wine glass in hand, listening to the same story over and over again, all you can think about is getting your coat, your casserole dish, your husband and going home...
Party Foul
An Exercise in Frustration by Brooks Reeves

You're standing in the same spot you were an hour ago, listening to the same jokes and stories. If you don't extract yourself from this conversation soon, you're going to scream.
About yourself
If you knew you were going to be standing around for hours, you would have worn more comfortable shoes. As it is, you're wearing a serviceable blue dress and a pair of four inch heels that are killing your toes. If you don't get out of this party soon, you're going to murder someone.

"And then I say, who cares? Let's play another round of golf!" Frank finishes and then explodes with laughter.
Scream
I know you're frustrated, but let's not make a scene, okay?

"Hey," Frank begins again, "I ever tell you the time I went to Disney World and puked on the Dumbo ride? True story!"
You ask Frank about the bathroom
You start to open your mouth, but Frank blazes ahead. It looks like you're going to have to get Frank to shut up before you can ask any questions.

"Course," he continues, "I probably shouldna gotten so wasted on Pina Coladas in the Tiki Room, if you know what I'm sayin'." He pats you slyly on the shoulder and you feel a small part of you die on the inside.

This isn't that kind of party.

"Hey!" he says, "Speakin' of which, bartender! Gimme another scotch and soda! Easy on the soda."

Ron barely looks Frank's way, saying, "I think we can all agree you've had enough, Frank."
Inv
You are carrying a wine glass, a blue dress (being worn) and a pair of black heels (being worn).

Frank elbows you on your side, "Can you believe this guy? I mean can you BELIEVE it? Ole cheapskate can't even afford more booze? I mean what kinda party is this supposed to be? Reminds me of that time I went to Salt Lake. I ever tell you about that?"
You drink wine
One glass of wine is your limit for these kinds of parties. You're just carrying this one around so people think you're having a good time.

"Well, see a bunch of the fellas and me were goin' to Lost Vegas fer a weekend, and we got waylayed in Utah on account of thish blizzard, see?" says Frank.
You smell the wine
Well, you could say that you detect hints of plum and burgundy with a dab of rosemary that marks this particular vintage as originating from southern france, near the hills of Le Puy... but honestly, it just smells like wine.

"And let me tell you, my friend," Frank brays, "Salt Lake City is NO Las Vegas!
You spill the wine
Are you sure that's the best use of that wine glass?

"I mean Lost Vegas... wait, did I jess say Lost Vegas? Wow! Thash crazy! I mean Las Vegas," he clarifies, "Well, you know what I mean, I mean I meant. I meant I mean. Woah, are these floors tilted or is it jess me?
Kiss frank
You're half tempted. If only because it might shut him up a few seconds. But then your gag reflex kicks in and you think better of it.

"Hey," says Frank, "You're not drinking that wine are you?" He looks at the glass in your hand like a starving man looks at a ham sandwich.
You give the wine to Frank
An idea crosses your mind and before Frank can continue, you offer him your glass. "Here", you say, "It looks like you could use another drink, and I haven't even touched this wine."

Ron's eyes widen in alarm from behind the bar. "I-I don't think that's such a good idea," he warns.

"Nonesense!" snaps Frank, ripping the glass from your hand. "Ish jess a night cap, Ron. Fer chrissakes."

"So where was I?" he resumes, "Oh yeah, Lost Vegas! Well, they got magic shows there. You know I used to do magic back when I was a kid. Ish true!"

In one gulp, Frank downs half the contents of your glass. Ron looks at you gravely from behind the bar.
Exit
But you aren't in anything at the moment.

"I could do all sorts of things. Pennies. Cards. I could make all sores of things disappear!" Frank says.

"Well you certainly had success with my bourbon collection," notes Ron.

Frank tips the rest of the wine down his throat and wipes his mouth with his sleeve.
You order the wine
"Wait," says Frank, before you can order a drink, "Lemme finnish!" It looks like you're going to have to get rid of frank before ordering another cocktail.

Once, I knew this trick where you take a shot glass and you make it vanish under thish napkin, see," says Frank, "Of course you need an empty shot glass. And believe you me, I can empty shot glasses like there's no tomorrow!"

Suddenly Frank puts his hands to his stomach. "Oh..." he says. "I done feel so well." He sloppily puts the glass down on the bar and wanders off in the direction of the guest room, mumbling, "I'm gonna lie down fer a biit."

You turn to look at Ron who glares at you pensively. "If he vomits on anything," he says, "I'm holding you responsible."
You order the wine
"I'm afraid I'm I'll out," he says.
Examine bar
More of a high oak table than an actual bar, it's nonetheless a fine example of craftsmanship, like pretty much everything else in the house. On the surface is an array of liquor bottles, a line of glasses and a cocktail book. Ron stands behind it like a guard at a sentry. You guess it gives him an excuse not to talk to people.
You look around
The ceiling lofts high into a round arch in the Fincher's front living room. Paintings tastefully line the southern wall, and a large window looks out into the night. A piano is in one corner of the room and a bar is in the other. Ron stands here behind the bar, on top of which is an array of liquor bottles, a line of glasses and a cocktail book. An archway north leads to the den, a hallway northwest connects to the kitchen, and the guest room, where the coats have been placed, lies to the west. The front door waits invitingly to the south.
Examine book
A book of cocktail recipes lies open in display across the top of the bar. It currently displays the very complicated recipe for a drink called a Singapore sunrise. "You know," Ron says as he notices your interest in the book, "If you'd like a drink all you have to do is order one."

Ron sighs from behind the bar.
You look at Ron
Ron Fincher is technically the host of the party, but his wife, the hostess seems to be more in the party spirit. He is a tall man with an ashen face and an even grayer expression. He wears a thin black suit that fits like it was painted on him, and he stoically mans the makeshift bar with the bearing of someone who would rather be anywhere else. He casually stirs his bloody mary with a stalk of celery.
Order sunrise
"Give me a singapore sunrise," you say.

"Right away," Ron tells you putting his glass on the bar, "This is my favorite drink to mix. It's a complicated process, you know."

Ron turns around and grabs a bottle from behind him.
You examine the paintings
Which do you mean, the painting of a cabin or the abstract painting?
You examine abstract
It's a wooded landscape with a little too-cute cabin situated deep in the forest. Its lovely frame stands level with the wall.

Ron, his back to you, pours that bottle, plus several others into a shaker.

A tornado of ketchup reds, mustard yellows, and relish greens. You're not sure what it means, but it looks like an explosion at a condiment factory. The black frame of the painting stands level with the wall.

Ron shakes the concoction together.
Murder ron
Don't take out your frustrations on poor Ron. He's already married to Abbey. Hasn't he suffered enough?

Ron pours the contents out into a glass.

"Here you are," begins Ron as he turns around and puts the drink on the bar. "One singapore sunrise. Enjoy."
Smell sunrise
The oddly colored drink has a strange odor; a mixture of rubbing alcohol, hand lotion, and burnt tires.
You play the piano
You know how to play the kazoo. But that, sadly, is the limit of your musical ability.

Ron looks at you strangely.
Drink sunrise
While it would be easy to drink your worries away, you've got to stay focused on your objectives. Namely: Getting the hell out of this party!
You take the sunrise
You take the singapore sunrise.
Spill sunrise
You drop the glass and the singapore sunrise spills all across the floor.

Ron looks at you pensively, "Sorry," you say.

"I'm sure it was unavoidable," he says doubtfully.

Ron takes a sip from his bloody mary.
You throw sunrise at Ron
(first taking the spilled drink)
You've already made the commitment to spill your drink. Let it go. This is somebody else's problem now.
Order sunrise
"Give me a singapore sunrise," you say.

"Really?" he asks, "Are you going to spill this one on the carpet like you did the last one?"

"Umm..." you stammer.

"Never mind," he says, putting down his glass, "Why else am I behind the bar?"

Ron turns around and grabs a bottle from behind him.
You go to the northwest
"Please don't leave," Ron says. "I'm almost finished with your drink."

Ron, his back to you, pours that bottle, plus several others into a shaker.
Go northwest
"Please don't leave," Ron says. "I'm almost finished with your drink."

Ron shakes the concoction together.
You remove the shoes
Sure, you could take them off and have Abbey see you running around in your blistered bare feet, but you'd rather be miserable than give her that satisfaction.

Ron pours the contents out into a glass.

"Here you are," begins Ron as he turns around and puts the drink on the bar. "One singapore sunrise. Enjoy."
You take the sunrise
(the spilled drink)
You've already made the commitment to spill your drink. Let it go. This is somebody else's problem now.
You get sunrise
(the spilled drink)
You've already made the commitment to spill your drink. Let it go. This is somebody else's problem now.

"You know there's no escape," says Ron, looking at you seriously, "The cocktail parties never end. You know, tomorrow we're hosting another one. Another One!"
Look around
The ceiling lofts high into a round arch in the Fincher's front living room. Paintings tastefully line the southern wall, and a large window looks out into the night. A piano is in one corner of the room and a bar is in the other. Ron stands here behind the bar, on top of which is a singapore sunrise, an array of liquor bottles, a line of glasses and a cocktail book. An archway north leads to the den, a hallway northwest connects to the kitchen, and the guest room, where the coats have been placed, lies to the west. The front door waits invitingly to the south.

Your empty glass lies in the corner of the carpet next to a nasty spill.

On the bar is a singapore sunrise.
You take all from the bar
singapore sunrise: You take the singapore sunrise.
You go to the northwest
You step into the brightly lit gray kitchen where you find Barb Mason and Sandy Quinlivan gathered around the kitchen island. All you need to do is grab the casserole dish you brought and get out of here. Barb, who sits at a stool in front of your dish, eating one of your rice crispy treats, turns to you.

"Amy, oh my god. I cannot tell you how good these rice crispie treats are. You know, I have been getting the weirdest cravings recently," she says, pointedly rubbing her swollen belly, "And these are to die for. Seriously. I am not letting you leave until I finish these off. They're that good."

"Well," you say, gritting your teeth, "I'm glad you like them."
Kitchen
The Fincher's kitchen is very modern, with gray marble counters, a beautiful stove, oven, and a rounded island. A sturdy refrigerator stands in the corner of the room next to a dishwasher, each modern appliance deeply contrasted by the old fashioned microwave hanging above the stove. There is a butter knife, a toaster, a bottle of cleaning fluid and a scrub brush on the kitchen counter. The living room is to the south east, and the den is immediately to the east.

Barb Clover sits at the kitchen island, slowly eating from the rice crispies in your casserole dish. Sandy, Frank's wife, sits at her side inconspicuously.

"God," Barb tells Sandy, "I am so sick of being pregnant. I just want it out of me already!"
Punch barb
You check your impulses. Even pregnant, you're pretty sure Barb could take you in a fight.

Abbey Fincher struts in from the den. "And how is everyone in this room, hmmm?" She inquires.
You talk to Abbey
If you'd like to talk to someone, try to ASK them ABOUT something or TELL them ABOUT something instead!

"You are positively glowing!" exclaims Abbey to Barb.

"It's probably the sheen on my skin," says Barb, "I can't help it. I sweat like a pig."
You ask Barb about the baby
"How's the pregnancy coming?" you ask.

"Oh, Jesus," she says, "I don't care how bad the labor is, it can't be worse than nine months of having your hormones go all schizophrenic on you, while you have an enormous beach ball full of sand filling up in your gut at the same time!"

"Hey," says Barb, "You need any help?"

"Oh no! Not at all! You just sit right there and enjoy yourself," commands Abbey.
You eat the rice
You and your husband already polished off the first batch before you came to party. You really don't feel like having any more.

"Goodness! I wonder how everyone else is doing?" exclaims Abbey and with that she struts to the den.
You ask Barb about the treats
"Barb," you say, "I need my casserole dish. I'm leaving."

"You know, Amy, I'm hearin' ya, I really am," she says, "But I can't help these cravings. In fact, the only thing I'm craving more than these rice crispie goodies is a good old fashioned ants on a log. Like in girl scouts!"
You ask Barb about Ants on a Log
"What exactly is an Ants on a Log?" you ask her.

"Oh, they're amazing," Barb says, "You take a celery stalk, put peanut butter in the middle of it, and line the thing with raisins!" You look at her blankly for a moment. "The sum is greater than the whole, Amy," she says, "believe me."

"Do you know if it's going to be a boy or a girl?" asks Sandy.

"Nah," Barb says, "I'd rather be surprised. Course, with my luck it'll be a freakin' hermaphrodite."
You open the fridge
You open the fridge and a draft of cold air circulates around the room.

"Hey!" shout Barb, "Shut that thing! You're letting cold air in!"

You quickly shut it.
You take the casserole
Barb does not look prepared to let you have it. She's still eating your rice crispie treats.

Abbey Fincher struts in from the den. "You know, Amy," she says, "I shouldn't have to tell you how thrilled I am you could make it to our little shindig."
You ask Abbey about the husband
"Oh darling!" she says, "Do stop asking so many questions! Enjoy the party!"

"Great party," Barb says to Abbey.

"Oh yes," chimes in Sandy, "It's... It's very nice."
Punch abbey
It's tempting. Very tempting. But somehow she'd manage to block you with the power of her passive aggression.
Go southeast
The ceiling lofts high into a round arch in the Fincher's front living room. Paintings tastefully line the southern wall, and a large window looks out into the night. A piano is in one corner of the room and a bar is in the other. Ron stands here behind the bar, on top of which is an array of liquor bottles, a line of glasses and a cocktail book. An archway north leads to the den, a hallway northwest connects to the kitchen, and the guest room, where the coats have been placed, lies to the west. The front door waits invitingly to the south.

Your empty glass lies in the corner of the carpet next to a nasty spill.

Ron checks his watch.
You ask Ron about the celery
"Is that bloody mary good?" you ask Ron.

"Yes," he says, "It's very good."

Abbey Fincher walks in from the kitchen. "Don't mind me! Don't mind me!" she cries, "I'm just making sure everyone is having a good time!"

"Oh dear!" Abbey says hurrying over to inspect the damage, "Did you spill your glass? Don't worry. I'll take care of that."
You order Bloody Mary
"Could I have one of those?" you ask Ron, pointing to his Bloody Mary.

"I'm sorry," he says unapologetically, "We're all out of Clamata."

"Well, let me go fetch some cleaning supplies," Abbey says as she disappears into the kitchen.
You take the celery
You can't reach over the bar and nab the celery stalk. First, your arms aren't that long, and second, Ron would probably stop you.

Ron frowns at you.
You give you the celery
(Ron Fincher first taking the celery stalk)
If you'd like Ron to make you a drink, simply say "order something".

Abbey enters the room, armed with a scrub brush and a bottle of cleaning fluid. "Time to tackle that stain!" she crows.
You look up the celery in the book
You begin to flip the pages of the book, but Ron puts his fingers down. "Please stop touching things that don't belong to you," he chides, "If you want me to make you a drink, you can simply order one."

"Abbey crouches down and begins to scrub the floor where you spilled your drink. "Don't worry," she tells you, "With enough bleach and elbow grease anything is possible!"
You order the celery
You should do something with the drink he already gave you, first.

"Abbey scrubs the floor with a vengence.

Ron casually stirs his bloody mary with a celery stalk.
You ask Abbey about the celery
"Why does your husband drink bloody marys?" you ask, "I've never found them very tasty."

"He considers it his daily intake of vegetables," she tells you.

"Out, out, damn spot!" Abbey commands the stain, as she continues to scrub it.
Spill sunrise
(the singapore sunrise)
You drop the glass and the singapore sunrise spills all across the floor.

"Have you heard of a coaster?" Ron asks you, "They're wonderful inventions. Perhaps in the future you could try using them.

Satisfied with her work, Abbey stands back up. "There!" she says, "It's mostly out."
Order sunrise
"Give me a singapore sunrise," you say.

"You want another one?" he asks you.

"Yes," you say,

He pointedly sets his glass down on the bar, "Well," he says, "I hope you enjoy it."

"Well, my work here is done," Abbey says proudly, and brandishing the scrub brush and the cleaner, she exits back into the kitchen.

Ron turns around and grabs a bottle from behind him.
You look up the celery in the book
You begin to flip the pages of the book, but Ron puts his fingers down. "Please stop touching things that don't belong to you," he chides, "If you want me to make you a drink, you can simply order one."

Ron, his back to you, pours that bottle, plus several others into a shaker.
You take the celery
You pluck the celery stalk from the bloody mary. It drips with tomato juice.

Ron shakes the concoction together.
Smell the celery
It smells like a fresh spring garden drowned in tomato juice.

Ron pours the contents out into a glass.

"Here we are," Ron says, turning around and placing your drink on the bar, "One singapore sunrise." He picks up his glass gingerly and is about to take a sip from it when he notices the celery missing.

"May I have my stalk of celery back?" he asks.

"What stalk of celery?" you ask demurely.

"The one you have right there in your left hand," he says. Without comment you sheepishly give him back the celery.
You put celery in the dress
That can't contain things.

Ron pours the contents out into a glass.

"Here we are," Ron says, turning around and placing your drink on the bar, "One singapore sunrise." He picks up his glass gingerly and is about to take a sip from it when he notices the celery missing.

"May I have my stalk of celery back?" he asks.

"What stalk of celery?" you ask demurely.

"The one you have right there in your left hand," he says. Without comment you sheepishly give him back the celery.
You drop the celery
You set the stalk of celery on the bar.

Ron pours the contents out into a glass.

"Here we are," Ron says, turning around and placing your drink on the bar, "One singapore sunrise." He picks up his glass gingerly and is about to take a sip from it when he notices the celery missing.

He looks down and sees the celery stalk lying on the bar. "My, my," he says, "My stalk of celery must have leapt from my glass when I wasn't looking," he says, picking it back up and putting it in his drink, "Suicidal vegetables. How probable."
Xyzzy
"Gesundheit," says Ron.

Ron pours the contents out into a glass.

"Here we are," Ron says, turning around and placing your drink on the bar, "One singapore sunrise." He picks up his glass gingerly and is about to take a sip from it when he notices the celery missing.

"May I have my stalk of celery back?" he asks.

"What stalk of celery?" you ask demurely.

"The one you have right there in your left hand," he says. Without comment you sheepishly give him back the celery.
Go west
You step into the guest room to find Frank wobbling around the room. Ooh, perhaps you shouldn't have given him that last glass of wine. "Frank," you ask, "Are you doing okay? Do you want me to get you some water?"

"Nah, I'm fine," he says, clearly lying. He slumps over to the bed and begins to crawl on top of the pile of coats.

"Wait, no, Frank," you say, "What are you doing? Get off those coats!"

He looks up at you and smiles a stupid crooked smile. "Shay goodnight, Gracie!" he slurs almost imcomprehensibly and then passes out, belly down on top of your coat and everyone else's.

You frown and bite your lower lip. It looks like getting your coat is going to take a bit of effort. "Goodnight Gracie," you mutter beneath your breath.
Guest Room
This small guest room is quaintly furnished, with a large king sized bed taking up most of the space. Sprawled across it lies Frank in a deep slumber. A small closet is tucked into the corner next to the dresser, and a miniature space heater rests at the foot of the bed. On the dresser is an alarm clock. The only exit is back east into the living room.

Your purse lies against the foot of the bed.

"I swear, officer," Frank mutters in his sleep, "I only had one beer. I swear..."
You take the purse
You sling the purse over your shoulder.
You search the purse
In your purse are a tube of lipstick and billfold.
You put the lipstick on Frank
You know you shouldn't. You know it's wrong. But you can't quite help yourself. You take out your tube of lipstick and paint a bright red circle around Frank's lips. Hee Hee.

As he sleeps, Frank lets out a large and messy sounding fart. You make a mental note: First thing tomorrow morning you're getting your coat dry-cleaned.
You search the dresser
You open the drawers one by one. They're all empty. Abbey keeps a tidy home.
You open the dresser
You open the guest room closet, revealing a hair dryer.

You open the drawers one by one. They're all empty. Abbey keeps a tidy home.

Frank shifts, restlessly on the bed, but does not roll off the pile of coats.
You turn on heater
You switch on the space heater. Gradually it begins to quietly hum and the front of it turns a pretty amber. You feel warmer already.

The lights quiver and dim.
You plug in the dryer
What do you want to plug in the hair dryer?
Go east
You go east
The ceiling lofts high into a round arch in the Fincher's front living room. Paintings tastefully line the southern wall, and a large window looks out into the night. A piano is in one corner of the room and a bar is in the other. Ron stands here behind the bar, on top of which is a singapore sunrise, an array of liquor bottles, a line of glasses and a cocktail book. An archway north leads to the den, a hallway northwest connects to the kitchen, and the guest room, where the coats have been placed, lies to the west. The front door waits invitingly to the south.

Abbey Fincher walks around the room, inspecting the furniture.

On the bar is a singapore sunrise.

"My goodness!" Abbey says, cornering you by the piano, "You spent so much of your time talking to Frank that we never got a chance to chat. How are things?"

"Fine," you say, "Just fine."
Go north
You walk into the den where you find your husband along with Chuck Whitman watching the television. "Come on," you say, "We're going."

"Aw, babe," he says, his eyes imploring you, "It's in the middle of the game! You gotta let us finish."
Punch abbey
You purse your lips in annoyance. "How far along is it?" you ask.

"Second Quarter," he says, "But don't worry. It should be over soon. Unless it gets into overtime. Well and the Steelers are playing the Packers right after so... I don't know." He stuffs some more chips into his mouth and looks back to the screen.

You frown. It's obvious your husband isn't leaving without some firm persuasion.

Set in soft wood paneling, the Fincher's Den screams comfort and class. A couch sits in front of a cherry wood coffee table with a view to their big screen television. There is a jar of peanut butter, a bowl of chips, a stack of napkins and a remote control on the table. A large glass sliding door, leading out to the porch, stands closed to the north. You could walk back south to the living room, or west to the kitchen.

Your husband, Mark, and Chuck Whitman sit on the couch, avidly watching a football game.

Chuck stands up, excitedly, "He's going for it! He's going for it!" he yells, "And..."

The lights in the room pulse a tad brighter.

Hmm... It seems as if someone has just turned something off in another room.
Kiss husband
Oh, what? You're going to reward this kind of behavior? I think not.
You take the remote control
As you reach down to take the remote control, your husband quickly moves it out of your grasp. "No, no, no," he says, "No touchie. You can watch Top Chef when the game is over."
Kiss chuck
Chalk it up to your sore feet, but you aren't in the kissing mood.

The football player on the television is tackled on the thirty yard line. "Oh! Snap!" cries Chuck.
You unplug the tv
"Boy's," you say severely, "You've driven me to this. I just want you to know that." You look behind the television to find the plug, but can't find a thing.

"The T.V."s attached through the floor," says your husband Mark, "But nice try.
Inv
You are carrying your purse (being worn and open), inside which are a bag of raisins, a tube of lipstick and billfold, a blue dress (being worn) and a pair of black heels (being worn).
You take the napkin
You pick up a small napkin from the top of the stack.

On the screen, one team has apparently called a time-out.
You ask the husband about the game
"Uh, huh," he says, "That's nice. Hmm.." His eyes then glance over to the television screen and he screams, "Oh my god! Did you just see that interception?!!"
You take the peanut butter
You pick up the jar of peanut butter, making sure to keep your fingers away from the sticky rim.
You go to the south
The ceiling lofts high into a round arch in the Fincher's front living room. Paintings tastefully line the southern wall, and a large window looks out into the night. A piano is in one corner of the room and a bar is in the other. Ron stands here behind the bar, on top of which is a singapore sunrise, an array of liquor bottles, a line of glasses and a cocktail book. An archway north leads to the den, a hallway northwest connects to the kitchen, and the guest room, where the coats have been placed, lies to the west. The front door waits invitingly to the south.

On the bar is a singapore sunrise.

Ron looks at you and says, "You know, if you'd like another drink, all you have to do is order one."
Spill sunrise
It might look more natural if you were holding the cocktail.
You spill it
You've already made the commitment to spill your drink. Let it go. This is somebody else's problem now.

"Well, let me go fetch some cleaning supplies," Abbey says as she disappears into the kitchen.

The spilled drink can't be spilled.
Order sunrise
"Give me a singapore sunrise," you say.

Ron looks at you for a long beat with a searching stare. He finally puts his glass on the bar and silently begins to mix your drink.

Abbey enters the room, armed with a scrub brush and a bottle of cleaning fluid. "Time to tackle that stain!" she crows.

Ron turns around and grabs a bottle from behind him.
You put it in the purse
You pluck the celery stalk from the bloody mary. It drips with tomato juice.

"Abbey crouches down and begins to scrub the floor where you spilled your drink. "Don't worry," she tells you, "With enough bleach and elbow grease anything is possible!"

Ron, his back to you, pours that bottle, plus several others into a shaker.

The celery is dripping with Tomato juice! You're going to need to wipe it off, first.

"Out, out, damn spot!" Abbey commands the stain, as she continues to scrub it.

Ron shakes the concoction together.
You put the celery in the purse
Gingerly you wipe off the celery with the paper napkin, and throw the napkin into the trash. There! Good as new!

Sort of.

Well, look at it this way: At least it's not dripping with Tomato juice.

"Abbey scrubs the floor with a vengence.

Ron pours the contents out into a glass.

"Here we are," Ron says, turning around and placing your drink on the bar, "One singapore sunrise." He picks up his glass gingerly and is about to take a sip from it when he notices the celery missing.

"May I have my stalk of celery back?" he asks.

"What stalk of celery?" you ask demurely.

"The one you have right there in your left hand," he says. Without comment you sheepishly give him back the celery.

You need to be holding the celery stalk before you can put it into something else.

Satisfied with her work, Abbey stands back up. "There!" she says, "It's mostly out."

Ron shifts his weight to the other leg.
Go south
Set in soft wood paneling, the Fincher's Den screams comfort and class. A couch sits in front of a cherry wood coffee table with a view to their big screen television. There is a bowl of chips, a stack of napkins and a remote control on the table. A large glass sliding door, leading out to the porch, stands closed to the north. You could walk back south to the living room, or west to the kitchen.

Your husband, Mark, and Chuck Whitman sit on the couch, avidly watching a football game.

"Aw, dude," says Chuck to your husband, "Did you see that play? Man, that was sweet!"

You pick up a small napkin from the top of the stack.

The ceiling lofts high into a round arch in the Fincher's front living room. Paintings tastefully line the southern wall, and a large window looks out into the night. A piano is in one corner of the room and a bar is in the other. Ron stands here behind the bar, on top of which is a singapore sunrise, an array of liquor bottles, a line of glasses and a cocktail book. An archway north leads to the den, a hallway northwest connects to the kitchen, and the guest room, where the coats have been placed, lies to the west. The front door waits invitingly to the south.

On the bar is a singapore sunrise.

Ron puts his hand on his chin and looks at you in a suspicious manner.

Abbey Fincher saunters in from the kitchen. "I do hope you're enjoying the party!" she says.

"Amy dear," Abbey says, plucking the jar of peanut butter from your hands, "I appreciate you helping out, but the spreads belong on the coffee table with the rest of the snacks!"

Abbey Fincher walks away to the den, carrying the jar of peanut butter.
Order sunrise
"Give me a singapore sunrise," you say.

Ron looks at you for a long beat with a searching stare. He finally puts his glass on the bar and silently begins to mix your drink.

Ron turns around and grabs a bottle from behind him.
You put the celery in the purse
You pluck the celery stalk from the bloody mary. It drips with tomato juice.

Ron, his back to you, pours that bottle, plus several others into a shaker.

Gingerly you wipe off the celery with the paper napkin, and throw the napkin into the trash. There! Good as new!

Sort of.

Well, look at it this way: At least it's not dripping with Tomato juice.

Ron shakes the concoction together.

You put the cleaned off stalk of celery into your purse. Now nobody can see it! It's your little secret.

Ron pours the contents out into a glass.

"Here we are," Ron says, turning around and placing your drink on the bar, "One singapore sunrise." He picks up his glass gingerly and is about to take a sip from it when he notices the celery missing.

"Where is it?" he asks you.

You raise your hands, as if equally dumbfounded. "Search me!" you say.

Ron frowns at you. "I'll pass," he says coldly.
You take the sunrise
(the spilled drink)
You've already made the commitment to spill your drink. Let it go. This is somebody else's problem now.

Ron runs his fingers around his celery-less glass.
You take all from the bar
singapore sunrise: You take the singapore sunrise.

Abbey Fincher saunters in from the kitchen. "And how is everyone in this room, hmmm?" She inquires.

Abbey gives a short grunt of annoyance and then walks over to you. "You know, dear," she says, "That's the third drink I've seen you spill. Perhaps you've had enough, hmm?"
You take knife
The Fincher's kitchen is very modern, with gray marble counters, a beautiful stove, oven, and a rounded island. A sturdy refrigerator stands in the corner of the room next to a dishwasher, each modern appliance deeply contrasted by the old fashioned microwave hanging above the stove. There is a bottle of cleaning fluid, a scrub brush, a butter knife and a toaster on the kitchen counter. The living room is to the south east, and the den is immediately to the east.

Barb Clover sits at the kitchen island, slowly eating from the rice crispies in your casserole dish. Sandy, Frank's wife, sits at her side inconspicuously.

Abbey waltzes into the kitchen. "It looks like somebody had an accident," she says.

"I told you, Sandy," Barb says, "You should've made Frank wear diapers!".

"No," Abbey says. "Somebody spilled a drink."

"So of course Chuck expects Dad to pay for everything," Barb tells Sandy, "But I'm like, we're not living in the freaking middle ages! Cough up some dough. We'll go dutch!"

"Dear, please leave the utensils alone," she says, "All of the snacks are bite sized. You don't need to cut anything! Except for perhaps a rug!" She laughs. You do not.

Abbey sets down her plate of appetizers and picks up the bottle of cleaning fluid and the scrub brush.
You eat the appetizers
(first taking the an appetizer)
You look at the unguarded plate of hors d'oeuvres and decide to try one. You pick up one of the toast wedges and plop it in your mouth. And then wish you hadn't. It tastes like a brined sock. You somehow manage to get it down, but you're not happy about it. Blech.

"Well," Abbey says, holding up the bottle of cleaner, "Time to make myself useful!" and with that she exits the kitchen.
You take knife
You take the butter knife.

"Look at me!" Barb tells Sandy, "It's like I swallowed a goddamn watermelon! The baby's due next month and we're not getting married 'til May. If I'm still this size by spring then shoot me. Just shoot me."
You take the butter
(the jar of peanut butter)
You pick up the jar of peanut butter, making sure to keep your fingers away from the sticky rim.
You spread the butter on the celery
Which do you mean, the jar of peanut butter or the butter knife?
Jar
You dip the knife into the jar and spread a nice long line of peanut butter along the line of the celery stalk.
You put the raisins on the celery
You carefully place a line of raisins down the line of the celery stalk. They stick to the swath of peanut butter and hold fast. Congratulations! You've officially made Ants on a Log!

"Touch down!!" scream both the men and they give each other high fives.
You give Ants on a Log to Barb
The Fincher's kitchen is very modern, with gray marble counters, a beautiful stove, oven, and a rounded island. A sturdy refrigerator stands in the corner of the room next to a dishwasher, each modern appliance deeply contrasted by the old fashioned microwave hanging above the stove. There is an an appetizer and a toaster on the kitchen counter. The living room is to the south east, and the den is immediately to the east.

Abbey Fincher stands against the wall, smiling with an unnerving fervor.

On the kitchen counter is an an appetizer.

Barb Clover sits at the kitchen island, slowly eating from the rice crispies in your casserole dish. Sandy, Frank's wife, sits at her side inconspicuously.

Abbey carefully puts back the bottle and the scrub brush back on the counter and picks back up the tray of appetizers.

"Hey, you ever been pregnant?" Barb asks Sandy.

"Oh, uh... no," says Sandy, a bit meekly. "I would have loved to, but Frank doesn't want children so..."

"Well it's over-rated. You're not missing anything," retorts Barb.

You show Barb the Ants on a Log you made. "Oh. My. God." she says, clearly astonished, "You are, like, the best friend ever!" She takes it from you and takes a slow bite from the end, clearly in heaven.

"Oh, it wasn't any trouble," you lie.

"Here" she says, pushing the casserole dish towards you, "Take them. Who needs rice crispie treats when you can get the real thing! Oh! This is yummy!"

Congratulations! You can now leave with your caserol dish! That's one step closer to getting the hell out of this party!
Kitchen
The Fincher's kitchen is very modern, with gray marble counters, a beautiful stove, oven, and a rounded island. A sturdy refrigerator stands in the corner of the room next to a dishwasher, each modern appliance deeply contrasted by the old fashioned microwave hanging above the stove. There is a bottle of cleaning fluid, a scrub brush and a toaster on the kitchen counter. The living room is to the south east, and the den is immediately to the east.

Abbey Fincher stands against the wall, smiling with an unnerving fervor.

Barb Clover sits at the kitchen island, slowly eating the celery stalk you gave her. Sandy, Frank's wife, sits at her side inconspicuously.

"Dear, I hate to bring this up," Abbey tells Sandy, her arm on her shoulder, "But I think your husband may have had a bit too much to drink tonight."

"Oh, ha. ha." laughs Sandy unconvincingly, "He sometimes does that. Ha. Ha."

"Goodness! I wonder how everyone else is doing?" exclaims Abbey and with that she ambles to the den.
You look at sandy
A slight woman, Sandy Quinlivan blends into the background no matter where she is. This seems to be deliberate, as even now she smiles at you nervously as you look at her. She's very pretty with blond highlighted hair, but you've never really had occasion to talk with her. You wish you could say the same about her husband.
You tell Sandy about Frank
"You know," you tell Sandy, "Frank fell asleep on all of the coats."

"Good luck waking him up, then!" she laughs nervously, "The only thing that'll do it at our house is the dog!"
You go west
The only exits are southeast and east.

"I'm not supposed to wear pure white, because... well look at me!" exclaims Barb, "But screw that. It's my wedding. I'll wear whatever the hell I want."
You ask Sandy about the dog
"That little poodle is very cute. We have a border collie. Her name is Sylvia. She's Frank's favorite, really. She wakes him up every morning. Pouncing on the bed and licking his face." She grimaces slightly thinking about it.

Abbey Fincher dances in from the den. "You know, Amy," she says, "I shouldn't have to tell you how thrilled I am you could make it to our little shindig."

"Darling, dear," Abbey says, taking you by the shoulders, "I thought we talked about this. Peanut Butter is for eating, not for picking up!" and before you can stop her, she's snatched the jar from your hands.

Abbey leave the kitchen for the den, carrying the jar of peanut butter with her.
Go east
Set in soft wood paneling, the Fincher's Den screams comfort and class. A couch sits in front of a cherry wood coffee table with a view to their big screen television. There is a jar of peanut butter, a bowl of chips, a stack of napkins and a remote control on the table. A large glass sliding door, leading out to the porch, stands closed to the north. You could walk back south to the living room, or west to the kitchen.

Abbey Fincher stands to the side of the room, carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres.

Your husband, Mark, and Chuck Whitman sit on the couch, avidly watching a football game.

"Men." Abbey whispers to you. "They do love their football, don't they?"

"Oh dear," Abbey says, looking at you worriedly, "It's best not to run around with these things," she says taking the knife from your hand. "We don't want you tripping on something and falling on it, now do we? Think of the liability!"

Abbey walks into the kitchen, carrying the knife.
You examine the door
The sliding glass door looks out onto the back porch. Or it would, if it wasn't so dark outside. A small black poodle yips at you from behind the glass.

"Do you play fantasy football?" your husband asks Chuck.

"Do I??" asks Chuck back excitedly, "Only, like, every day!"
You open the door
Thinking a bit of fresh air might help you think, you open the sliding door a crack. From between your legs shoots a small black dog into the house.

Abbey rushes in to the room. "Oh!" she says, "Has somebody opened the door and let in my little Reggie?"

The dog stands momentarily and sniffs the air and then races over to the coffee table and begins barking excitedly.

"Oh dear," says Abbey, "A host's work is never done!" and with that she ambles to the kitchen.
You wait
Time passes.

Abbey kneels down and picks up the poodle.
You close the door
As Abbey stands outside on the porch, dropping off her poodle, you quickly shut the porch door. It locks itself with a satisfying CLICK!
Go south
The ceiling lofts high into a round arch in the Fincher's front living room. Paintings tastefully line the southern wall, and a large window looks out into the night. A piano is in one corner of the room and a bar is in the other. Ron stands here behind the bar, on top of which is an array of liquor bottles, a line of glasses and a cocktail book. An archway north leads to the den, a hallway northwest connects to the kitchen, and the guest room, where the coats have been placed, lies to the west. The front door waits invitingly to the south.

Your empty glass lies in the corner of the carpet next to a nasty spill.

Ron emits a tired sigh.
You tell Ron about Abbey
"You sure are lucky to be married to such a happy spirit!" you suggest to Ron.

"Yes," he says with a dark quiet voice, "I'm very lucky."
You go east
The only exits are north, northwest, and west. And obviously south, to your freedom.
You go to the west
This small guest room is quaintly furnished, with a large king sized bed taking up most of the space. Sprawled across it lies Frank in a deep slumber. A small closet is tucked into the corner next to the dresser, and a miniature space heater rests at the foot of the bed. On the dresser is an alarm clock. The only exit is back east into the living room.

Frank begins to snore louder and louder, until suddenly he stops. It seems like he's having trouble breathing, and then he begins to snore regularly again.
You turn on the clock
You quickly turn on the alarm clock, and set it so that it rings right now.

Suddenly a large ringing emits from the clock. You look at the sleeping man on the bed. Nothing. You turn the alarm clock back off. It seems as if nothing is going to wake this man.
You hit Frank
You lean over the bed and smack Frank on the face. He doesn't even stop snoring. It seems as if his jowls have deflected your blows.
You plug the heater in
What do you want to plug the space heater in?
You look at the heater
A small space heater lies against the wall near the bed. The chord lies uplugged against the wall.

Frank shifts in his sleep.
You plug the heater in the outlet
You plug the space heater back into the outlet.
Close closet
You take the hair dryer.

Frank lets out a loud snort, but continues sleeping.

You close the guest room closet.
You examine the toaster
It's a gleaming modern toast making machine. It's even big enough to fit bagels!
You plug the toaster in the outlet
You plug the toaster into the outlet.

"So how did you and Frank get together?" asks Barb.

"Oh, I don't know," replies Sandy, "He's much nicer when he's sober, you know."
You turn on toaster
You press down on the toaster lever and the inside coals begin to glow bright orange.
The lights grow even dimmer. One more energy-draining machine should push the electrical system to the max.
You turn on the microwave
You set the microwave for three minutes and press enter.

Suddenly, the entire house goes dark. It looks like you've pushed the electrical system over the edge.

"Way to go, Amy," you hear Barb snark in the darkness, "I told you not to mess with that microwave!"

"Don't worry," you hear Ron say from another room, "I think we've blown a fuse."

It is now pitch dark in here!
You go east
It is pitch dark, and you can't see a thing.

Abbey taps the porch door, from outside.

"I'll be right back," you hear a distant call from Ron, "I'm going to repair the fuse."
You wait
Time passes.

Abbey looks at you and smiles. She gestures to the door knob, indicating she's locked out.

You hear some scuttling around from beneath you. It must be Ron in the basement.
You wait
Time passes.

Abbey shivers from the other side of the glass door.

Suddenly the lights return and the sounds of electrical devices whirring back on flood the house, along with relieved sighs from everyone in the room. Don enters the room and examines the television.

"Thank God!" says Chuck, lunging for the remote and turning the teleivision back on. Only, the screen floods with blue and an error message displays. "What the hell's wrong with this thing?" he asks outraged.

"Yes," says Ron. "I was afraid this would happen. A power outtage disrupts the signal. We'll have to call the cable company to get the cable reset."

"Well how long is that going to take?" asks Chuck.

"Oh goodness!" Don replies dourly, "Several hours, probably. If it's anything like last time." And with that he exits back into the living room.

Chuck and your husband give a collective groan, and then Mark turns to you and says glumly, "Well, I'm ready to go whenever you are.

Congratulations! Your husband is prepared to leave the party! That's one step closer to getting the hell out of this party!
Den
Set in soft wood paneling, the Fincher's Den screams comfort and class. A couch sits in front of a cherry wood coffee table with a view to their big screen television. There is a jar of peanut butter, a bowl of chips and a stack of napkins on the table. A large glass sliding door, leading out to the porch, stands closed to the north. You could walk back south to the living room, or west to the kitchen.

Your husband, Mark, and Chuck Whitman sit on the couch, looking around restlessly.
You take the Butter
You pick up the jar of peanut butter, making sure to keep your fingers away from the sticky rim.

Abbey begins to frantically pound on the glass. Both, your husband and Chuck look at the door in alarm. Chuck stands up and opens up the door. "Got locked out?" he asks as Abbey steps back inside from the cold, closing the door behind her.

"Yes," she says eyeing you suspiciously, "The wind must have blown it shut..."

"Dear," Amy says seeing the jar of peanut butter, "You know the rules. Donnez moi!" And with that she takes the jar of peanut butter from you.

Abbey places the jar of peanut butter back on the coffee table.
Inv
You are carrying a hair dryer, a singapore sunrise, your purse (being worn and open), inside which are a bag of raisins, a tube of lipstick and billfold, a blue dress (being worn) and a pair of black heels (being worn).
You take the jar
"Amy, dear," Abbey Fincher says as your hands go near the jar, "Please leave that jar where it is. I don't want peanut butter smudges all over the house."

"Now what are these glum faces I see?" Abbey asks Mark and Chuck, "Why there are plenty of things to do that don't involve watching television! Why, we could play a game of charades!"

"Could we just wait a bit on that one?" asks Chuck.

"Well, all right, Mr. Party Pooper," she says, "But nobody is leaving until we play a party game!"
You wait
Time passes.

"Oh dear," says Abbey, "A host's work is never done!" and with that she saunters to the kitchen.
You take the jar
You pick up the jar of peanut butter, making sure to keep your fingers away from the sticky rim.

"Amy," your husband whines, "I wanna go now!"

"I don't want to hear it, mister," you scold.
Go west
The Fincher's kitchen is very modern, with gray marble counters, a beautiful stove, oven, and a rounded island. A sturdy refrigerator stands in the corner of the room next to a dishwasher, each modern appliance deeply contrasted by the old fashioned microwave hanging above the stove. There is a butter knife, a bottle of cleaning fluid, a scrub brush and a toaster on the kitchen counter. The living room is to the south east, and the den is immediately to the east.

Abbey Fincher stands to the side of the room, carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres.

Barb Clover sits at the kitchen island, slowly eating the celery stalk you gave her. Sandy, Frank's wife, sits at her side inconspicuously.

"My! My! Those men love their football, don't they?" asks Abbey.

"It's worse during the summer," says Barb, "My Chuckie is a Cubs fan." All three of you nod sympathetically.

"Amy dear," Abbey says, plucking the jar of peanut butter from your hands, "I appreciate you helping out, but the spreads belong on the coffee table with the rest of the snacks!"

Abbey leave the kitchen for the den, carrying the jar of peanut butter with her.
You go west
Time passes.

Time passes.

The Fincher's kitchen is very modern, with gray marble counters, a beautiful stove, oven, and a rounded island. A sturdy refrigerator stands in the corner of the room next to a dishwasher, each modern appliance deeply contrasted by the old fashioned microwave hanging above the stove. There is a butter knife, a bottle of cleaning fluid, a scrub brush and a toaster on the kitchen counter. The living room is to the south east, and the den is immediately to the east.

Abbey Fincher walks around the room, inspecting the furniture.

Barb Clover sits at the kitchen island, slowly eating the celery stalk you gave her. Sandy, Frank's wife, sits at her side inconspicuously.

"My! My! Those men love their football, don't they?" asks Abbey.

"It's worse during the summer," says Barb, "My Chuckie is a Cubs fan." All three of you nod sympathetically.

"Goodness! I wonder how everyone else is doing?" exclaims Abbey and with that she saunters to the den.
You take the knife
Your hands are full!

"So of course my mom is thrilled about the wedding," Barb tells Sandy, "Of course she would have been more thrilled if I would have tied the knot before I got knocked up, you know."
You take the knife
You place the hair dryer on the counter.

You take the butter knife.
You go to the south-east
The ceiling lofts high into a round arch in the Fincher's front living room. Paintings tastefully line the southern wall, and a large window looks out into the night. A piano is in one corner of the room and a bar is in the other. Ron stands here behind the bar, on top of which is an array of liquor bottles, a line of glasses and a cocktail book. An archway north leads to the den, a hallway northwest connects to the kitchen, and the guest room, where the coats have been placed, lies to the west. The front door waits invitingly to the south.

Your empty glass lies in the corner of the carpet next to a nasty spill.

Ron blinks his eyes and takes another sip from his drink.
Go west
This small guest room is quaintly furnished, with a large king sized bed taking up most of the space. Sprawled across it lies Frank in a deep slumber. A small closet is tucked into the corner next to the dresser, and a miniature space heater rests at the foot of the bed. On the dresser is an alarm clock. The only exit is back east into the living room.

Frank wiggles his legs in his sleep. So that's what Restless Leg Syndrome looks like, you think.
You put the jar on Frank
You take the knife and spread a nice swath of peanut butter on Frank's cheek and around his mouth. Strangely, he appears no less appetizing.
You open door
The ceiling lofts high into a round arch in the Fincher's front living room. Paintings tastefully line the southern wall, and a large window looks out into the night. A piano is in one corner of the room and a bar is in the other. Ron stands here behind the bar, on top of which is an array of liquor bottles, a line of glasses and a cocktail book. An archway north leads to the den, a hallway northwest connects to the kitchen, and the guest room, where the coats have been placed, lies to the west. The front door waits invitingly to the south.

Your empty glass lies in the corner of the carpet next to a nasty spill.

Ron licks his thin lips.

Set in soft wood paneling, the Fincher's Den screams comfort and class. A couch sits in front of a cherry wood coffee table with a view to their big screen television. There is a bowl of chips and a stack of napkins on the table. A large glass sliding door, leading out to the porch, stands closed to the north. You could walk back south to the living room, or west to the kitchen.

Your husband, Mark, and Chuck Whitman sit on the couch, looking around restlessly.

"So..." Chuck says, "How about them Cowboys, huh?"

You decide to try opening the door again. Sure enough, the little black poodle races across the room.

You eagerly follow him from the living room into the guest room, where he stands on the bed licking peanut butter from Frank Quinlivan's face.

Abbey follows you close behind and screams. "Oh no! Oh  no!" she cries, "What have we told you about giving kisses to strangers Reggie!" She reaches over and scoops Reggie up and exits the room scolding the poodle, but the work is done. Frank's eyes flutter and he groans as he lifts himself from the bed.

"Where am I?" he asks, his eyes slowly adjusting to consciousness, "What time is it?"

"Time for me," you say, picking up and putting on your coat, "to be leaving."

Well, you've done it! It took manipulating a dog, causing a power outtage, and using peanut butter in creative and disturbing ways. But, with your coat on, your casserole dish in your right hand, and your husband on your left, you walk through the living room and begin to the open door...
And the door slams shut again. You turn to your side and there stands Abbey, a little worse for the wear, her hand holding the door closed. Bright red curls dangle from her usually kempt brow. "You can't leave yet!" she says with a manic glint to her eye, "We haven't played any party games!"

You stand at an impass. Abbey blocking you from the door.
You play the hide and the seek
And then you say calmly and clearly, "Abbey, please don't take this badly, but: Get the hell out of my way."

Congratulations! You have gotten the hell out of this party!
You look around
The Fincher's kitchen is very modern, with gray marble counters, a beautiful stove, oven, and a rounded island. A sturdy refrigerator stands in the corner of the room next to a dishwasher, each modern appliance deeply contrasted by the old fashioned microwave hanging above the stove. There is an an appetizer, a butter knife and a toaster on the kitchen counter. The living room is to the south east, and the den is immediately to the east.

Abbey Fincher stands to the side of the room, carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres.

On the kitchen counter is an an appetizer.

Barb Clover sits at the kitchen island, slowly eating from the rice crispies in your casserole dish. Sandy, Frank's wife, sits at her side inconspicuously.

"Well," Abbey says, holding up the bottle of cleaner, "Time to make myself useful!" and with that she exits the kitchen.
Xyzzy
The ceiling lofts high into a round arch in the Fincher's front living room. Paintings tastefully line the southern wall, and a large window looks out into the night. A piano is in one corner of the room and a bar is in the other. Ron stands here behind the bar, on top of which is an array of liquor bottles, a line of glasses and a cocktail book. An archway north leads to the den, a hallway northwest connects to the kitchen, and the guest room, where the coats have been placed, lies to the west. The front door waits invitingly to the south.

Abbey Fincher stands against the wall, smiling with an unnerving fervor.

Your empty glass lies in the corner of the carpet next to a nasty spill.

"Abbey crouches down and begins to scrub the floor where you spilled your drink. "Don't worry," she tells you, "With enough bleach and elbow grease anything is possible!"

Ron emits a tired sigh.

"Dear," Abbey says in a hushed tone, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't use witchcraft in the house. We don't even let our grandchildren read Harry Potter!"

"Abbey scrubs the floor with a vengence.
You examine abstract
As you reach for the painting, Abbey rushes over and stops you. "Please, dear," she says, "Paintings are for looking, not for touching."

"Out, out, damn spot!" Abbey commands the stain, as she continues to scrub it.

You can't see any such thing.
Plover
"Dear," Abbey says in a hushed tone, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't use witchcraft in the house. We don't even let our grandchildren read Harry Potter!"

Satisfied with her work, Abbey stands back up. "There!" she says, "It's mostly out."

Ron taps his fingers against the bar.
You wait
Time passes.

"Well, my work here is done," Abbey says proudly, and brandishing the scrub brush and the cleaner, she exits back into the kitchen.
Smell Ron
You can smell a hint of musty books and pipe tobacco. "What are you doing?" he asks you, "Why are you sniffing at me?"
You examine abstract
You look at the painting for a moment and consider that what the landscape really needs is a tilted horizon line. You grab the frame by the edges and tilt it against the wall.

Ron blinks his eyes and takes another sip from his drink.

Abbey Fincher walks in from the kitchen. "I do hope you're enjoying the party!" she says.

"Oh dear!" Abbey says looking at the landscape painting, "Somehow the frame has become crooked!" She walks over to it and straightens it out. "There!" she says, "Much better!"

As you reach for the painting, Abbey rushes over and stops you. "Please, dear," she says, "Paintings are for looking, not for touching."

"Darling, honey," Abbey asks her husband, "How are things at the bar?"

"Fine, dear," he says without emotion.

It's a wooded landscape with a little too-cute cabin situated deep in the forest. Its lovely frame stands level with the wall.

A tornado of ketchup reds, mustard yellows, and relish greens. You're not sure what it means, but it looks like an explosion at a condiment factory. The black frame of the painting stands level with the wall.

"I do hope you're planning on staying," Abbey tells you, "Because later on, we'll be playing party games!"
Wait
Time passes.

"Well," says Abbey, "I should really check on the rest of the party," and with that she struts to the kitchen.
You smell yourself
You can't smell anything. It's a curse, never to know what we smell like.
Wait
Time passes.

Ron emits a tired sigh.
Smell sandy
The Fincher's kitchen is very modern, with gray marble counters, a beautiful stove, oven, and a rounded island. A sturdy refrigerator stands in the corner of the room next to a dishwasher, each modern appliance deeply contrasted by the old fashioned microwave hanging above the stove. There is a bottle of cleaning fluid, a scrub brush, a butter knife and a toaster on the kitchen counter. The living room is to the south east, and the den is immediately to the east.

Barb Clover sits at the kitchen island, slowly eating from the rice crispies in your casserole dish. Sandy, Frank's wife, sits at her side inconspicuously.

"Look at me!" Barb tells Sandy, "It's like I swallowed a goddamn watermelon! The baby's due next month and we're not getting married 'til May. If I'm still this size by spring then shoot me. Just shoot me."

It smells like cereal and marshmallows.

Barb smells like body oil and sweat.

You try and make out something, a hint of an odor, a whisp of a scent. But nothing. Sandy doesn't seem to smell like anything at all.

"Hey, you ever been pregnant?" Barb asks Sandy.

"Oh, uh... no," says Sandy, a bit meekly. "I would have loved to, but Frank doesn't want children so..."

"Well it's over-rated. You're not missing anything," retorts Barb.

Abbey Fincher walks in from the living room. "Don't mind me! Don't mind me!" she cries, "I'm just making sure everyone is having a good time!"
Smell Abbey
You wish you couldn't. Her perfume enters a room five minutes before she does and it lingers long after she leaves. It's a mix between cough syrup and a compost heap of pot-pourri.

"Dear, I hate to bring this up," Abbey tells Sandy, her arm on her shoulder, "But I think your husband may have had a bit too much to drink tonight."

"Oh, ha. ha." laughs Sandy unconvincingly, "He sometimes does that. Ha. Ha."
Smell dog
Set in soft wood paneling, the Fincher's Den screams comfort and class. A couch sits in front of a cherry wood coffee table with a view to their big screen television. There is a jar of peanut butter, a bowl of chips, a stack of napkins and a remote control on the table. A large glass sliding door, leading out to the porch, stands closed to the north. You could walk back south to the living room, or west to the kitchen.

Your husband, Mark, and Chuck Whitman sit on the couch, avidly watching a football game.

"Do you play fantasy football?" your husband asks Chuck.

"Do I??" asks Chuck back excitedly, "Only, like, every day!"

Thinking a bit of fresh air might help you think, you open the sliding door a crack. From between your legs shoots a small black dog into the house.

Abbey rushes in to the room. "Oh!" she says, "Has somebody opened the door and let in my little Reggie?"

The dog stands momentarily and sniffs the air and then races over to the coffee table and begins barking excitedly.

"If there's anything I can do for you," says Abbey, putting her arm on your shoulder, "Please don't hesitate to ask," and with that she dances to the kitchen.

Reggie actually smells like lavender shampoo. Undoubtedly the best smelling member of the party.

Abbey kneels down and picks up the poodle.
You close the door
As Abbey stands outside on the porch, dropping off her poodle, you quickly shut the porch door. It locks itself with a satisfying CLICK!
Smell raisins
The ceiling lofts high into a round arch in the Fincher's front living room. Paintings tastefully line the southern wall, and a large window looks out into the night. A piano is in one corner of the room and a bar is in the other. Ron stands here behind the bar, on top of which is an array of liquor bottles, a line of glasses and a cocktail book. An archway north leads to the den, a hallway northwest connects to the kitchen, and the guest room, where the coats have been placed, lies to the west. The front door waits invitingly to the south.

Ron sighs from behind the bar.

The only exits are north, northwest, and west. And obviously south, to your freedom.

You can't see any such thing.
Smell raisins
This small guest room is quaintly furnished, with a large king sized bed taking up most of the space. Sprawled across it lies Frank in a deep slumber. A small closet is tucked into the corner next to the dresser, and a miniature space heater rests at the foot of the bed. On the dresser is an alarm clock. The only exit is back east into the living room.

Frank begins to snore louder and louder, until suddenly he stops. It seems like he's having trouble breathing, and then he begins to snore regularly again.

The man reeks of alcohol and aftershave.

They smell moist and yummy, that is if you're someone who likes raisins. Which you are. So they do.
You eat the raisins
(first taking the bag of raisins)
You take the bag of raisins.

You take a raisin from the bag and plop it in your mouth. Hmm! Surprisingly plump and fresh!

Frank's sleeping face twists in anguish. "No," he mutters in his sleep, "Don't do that. Stop. No..."
Smell bottles
The ceiling lofts high into a round arch in the Fincher's front living room. Paintings tastefully line the southern wall, and a large window looks out into the night. A piano is in one corner of the room and a bar is in the other. Ron stands here behind the bar, on top of which is an array of liquor bottles, a line of glasses and a cocktail book. An archway north leads to the den, a hallway northwest connects to the kitchen, and the guest room, where the coats have been placed, lies to the west. The front door waits invitingly to the south.

Ron looks at you strangely.

A strange blend of sweet and sour.
You open the window
It's one single pane. It doesn't even look like it opens. Besides, it's too cold outside to open any window!
Smell mary
You smell nothing unexpected.

Ron puts his hand on his chin and looks at you in a suspicious manner.
Smell celery
It smells like a fresh spring garden drowned in tomato juice.
Smell the toaster
The Fincher's kitchen is very modern, with gray marble counters, a beautiful stove, oven, and a rounded island. A sturdy refrigerator stands in the corner of the room next to a dishwasher, each modern appliance deeply contrasted by the old fashioned microwave hanging above the stove. There is a bottle of cleaning fluid, a scrub brush, a butter knife and a toaster on the kitchen counter. The living room is to the south east, and the den is immediately to the east.

Barb Clover sits at the kitchen island, slowly eating from the rice crispies in your casserole dish. Sandy, Frank's wife, sits at her side inconspicuously.

"I'm not supposed to wear pure white, because... well look at me!" exclaims Barb, "But screw that. It's my wedding. I'll wear whatever the hell I want."

You smell nothing unexpected.
Smell the lipstick
Let's leave the make-up huffing until after the party, okay?
Smell purse
You smell nothing unexpected.

"Did you know that Chuck wants his band to play the reception?" Barb asks Sandy, "Yeah, him and two of his washed out college buddies still hang out and play this 'music' once a month. They sound more like an industrial factory malfunction than any band I've ever heard. I told him, Chuck honey, if you so much as bring your drum set within a hundred feet of my reception, I'll call a divorce lawyer so fast it'll make your metronome explode."
You examine billfold
Your billfold is thick and almost bursting at the seams. Credit cards, club cards, identification cards, your library card and more pictures of your dog than a sane person ought to own are to blame.
Inv
You are carrying a bag of raisins, a singapore sunrise, your purse (being worn and open), inside which are a celery stalk, a tube of lipstick and billfold, a blue dress (being worn) and a pair of black heels (being worn).
You remove the dress
This isn't that kind of party.

"So how did you and Frank get together?" asks Barb.

"Oh, I don't know," replies Sandy, "He's much nicer when he's sober, you know."
You put raisins in the purse
You put the bag of raisins into your purse.
You put jar on the celery
You take the butter knife.

The only exits are southeast and east.

"So of course my mom is thrilled about the wedding," Barb tells Sandy, "Of course she would have been more thrilled if I would have tied the knot before I got knocked up, you know."

You can't see any such thing.
You put the jar on the celery
Set in soft wood paneling, the Fincher's Den screams comfort and class. A couch sits in front of a cherry wood coffee table with a view to their big screen television. There is a jar of peanut butter, a bowl of chips, a stack of napkins and a remote control on the table. A large glass sliding door, leading out to the porch, stands closed to the north. You could walk back south to the living room, or west to the kitchen.

Your husband, Mark, and Chuck Whitman sit on the couch, avidly watching a football game.

Abbey taps the porch door, from outside.

"Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!" screams Chuck at the television.

You dip the knife into the jar and spread a nice long line of peanut butter along the line of the celery stalk.

Abbey looks at you and smiles. She gestures to the door knob, indicating she's locked out.
You put the raisins on the celery
You carefully place a line of raisins down the line of the celery stalk. They stick to the swath of peanut butter and hold fast. Congratulations! You've officially made Ants on a Log!

Abbey shivers from the other side of the glass door.
Smell Ants
It smells like a fresh spring garden drowned in tomato juice, covered in peanut butter and littered with dried fruit.

Abbey gestures at you frantically to open the door, from outside the porch.

"Dammit!" says Chuck at the television, "Don't you morons know how to intercept??"
You eat Ants
You don't like celery. You don't like eating it. You don't like touching it. You don't like looking at it. This is your kind of night, huh?

Abbey exhales from behind the glass door. You can see steam coming from her breath.
You cry
You laugh to yourself with an uneasy gallows humor, at the absurdity of it all.