friday the 13th cyoa

CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE: Friday the 13th Choice 3C2

C) Absolutely bang Sam.

Choice 3

 
That was fantastic for Sam, you think.
 
“Well, that was… something,” Sam says.
 
Job well done, just as you thought. It’s already gotten dark outside; you were able to go for a whole fifteen minutes this time. You can hear the sounds of nature: bats calling in the distance, crickets chirping around the cabin, the sound of a deep bass drop from the dubstep music playing at the camp across the lake. All the comforts of the outdoors. Then you hear a sound from behind the cabin. It sounds like someone making weird vocalizations in an eerie whisper.
 
At first you think someone’s trying to invent their own theme music for when they enter a room, but when no one knocks at the cabin door, you begin to get a little paranoid. You did see someone lurking in the woods, after all.
 
“Sam, go investigate,” you say. Sam is putting on pants, so of course should volunteer since they’re better prepared.
 
“It’s probably just a coyote or something,” Sam says. Opening the cabin door, Sam peers out into the foggy darkness. “I don’t see anything…” Sam begins, and then a gnarled hand reaches in and palms Sam’s whole face. Probably good at basketball, you think. Then you hear the awful cracking sound of Sam’s skull breaking into pieces. Probably good at making eggs, you think.
 
But Sam’s entire body is pulled through the open doorframe and you see it thrown into the forest, the body limp. At least Sam got to have some ultra-satisfying sex before dying, you think. A hockey-masked man steps into the cabin, dripping wet and holding a gigantic machete. At first you wonder if he’s Canadian and why he doesn’t have a matching hockey stick. Then you frantically claw your way at the window, which is conveniently sealed shut to ensure none of the kids can sneak out at night and have underage Stephen King orgies.
 
The hockey-masked man inches toward you; he really does move fucking slow. He raises the machete and you don’t even hear the whoosh of air before a searing hot pain envelopes your left side. You look down; yep, you’re pretty sure that’s your own arm. It’s a surreal moment and you have to marvel at the ability of the human body to withstand such punishment. But then your left leg also joins the arm, and you crumple into a heap on the ground. Is this what dying feels like? It’s warm and terrifying, and as you stare up into the blank eyes of the hockey-masked murderer, you have your final thought.
 
“Did he make those triangles on that mask?”

YOU DIED

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