Fixing Good CYOA

[Corenat Rovarnus]

F is for the fatherland.

You decide to neither stand nor sit, but take a third option – the squat. You’ve always held a great admiration for Eastern European culture, hard men making do in harder times, and their signature pose is simple yet elegant allowing one to rest without touching the floor or needing a chair.

You lower yourself into a crouch. Unfortunately you didn’t bring any vodka to drink, and instead of a black and white track suit you’re only wearing a plaid shirt and khakis. Nevertheless the other occupants of the waiting room continue to stare at you, except for the baby who continues to cry.

After about 10 minutes, the door at the back of the room opens, and a young man with spiky hair walks out, giving you only a brief glance before exiting the building.

He looked vaguely familiar, but before you can think on it further Francine calls your name, telling you that Paul is ready to see you now. You stand up with a bit of difficulty and walk through the back door.

Paul Hoodman’s office looks a lot more respectable than its exterior. The floor is carpeted and bookshelves line the walls.

The man himself sits behind a rich mahogany desk. A giant copy of the US Constitution is plastered on the wall behind him, and a giant smile is plastered on his face.

“Welcome, Mr. Black, and sorry again about the chair situation. We used to have more before some psycho cut them up with a knife. Something about being an eyesore. Here, let me make it up to you.” Paul pulls out a cushy leather armchair and pats the back. You take a seat, though you might have preferred to continue squatting.

“Alright, let’s get down to brass tacks,” Paul says, “You have my fee?”

You hand him $100 in cash, split into several bills. Paul counts it up and pockets it quickly. “Fantastic. From here on out our conversation is privileged. Now what you’ve been waiting for: the solutions.”

You lean forward, listening attentively.

“We’ll start off with a classic, what I like to call the Slippin’ Timmy. We have a mark, that’s our victim, target, whatever you want to call it, a person of wealth. While they’re driving, you suddenly pop out into the street and pretend to be hit by their car. The injury will look totally real, I can make up a pretty convincing broken leg. You’ll moan and groan on the ground in pain, and guilt trip the mark into doling out some cold hard cash for your trouble. I’ll do the work of finding a suitable mark, you just need to show up and follow my instructions.”

“Although…” Paul looks over your aged frame. “No offense, but you might not be able to handle a fall, even a fake one. Is there someone younger that could do it?”

A. Yes, I have a teenage son.
B. I can squat for 10 minutes straight, I can handle this.
C. I don’t like this one, what else do you have?