text: [Themes: Humor, Slice of life]
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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?"
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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."
  
  > 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).
  
  > 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."
  
  > put raisins in the purse
  You put the bag of raisins into your purse.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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.
  
  > 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??"
  
  > 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.
  
  > cry
  You laugh to yourself with an uneasy gallows humor, at the absurdity of it all.