Choose Your Own Adventure #33: The Dragon's Den

Previously, I defeated the leader of evil giant ants who had somehow disguised itself as a robot and won the trust of the galaxy's best scientists. Today, it's back to more adventures in a dreamworld of magic and fantasy, as delivered by solid second-tier author Richard Brightfield. As a special added bonus, the illustrator has worked with "Heavy Metal" magazine, so you know this is going to be super righteous. If you don't believe me, consider the cover, full of warmed-over Tolkien cliches and hovering heads.

 Battle the evil dragon Thermal Inversion and return the evil pendant to Mount Misfortune.

The generic medieval setting is quickly established via some utilitarian prose and it's revealed that I'm some sort of wanderer, traveling across the land of magic in search of adventure. I honestly expected the next paragraph to be "You're in front of a dungeon entrance. What do you do?" Instead, I notice how the local economy and tourism industry has been devastated by attacks from a mythological Satan analogue. My lone wanderer character is so lacking in basic empathy that my immediate reaction is to speculate on the chance for treasure, ignoring the massive human cost of wyrm terrorism.

Of course, all this "here there be dragons" build is casually tossed aside on the next page, as another hoary plot device, the tavern of adventure leads, is introduced. Two poorly described individuals are discussing a treasure map or the like and I, as the Player Character, sense this is the one true path and interject myself, citing non-existent experience in such matters. Superficial charm, inability to connect with society or form friendships, total lack of emotion in the face of human suffering, grandiose and delusional self-worth...I'm a psychopath. Meanwhile, these other two goofs, who I'll presumably betray and kill after they're no longer useful, are worried about "the King's spies" and want to meet in a room upstairs. I consider it, but instead tell them to...

They agree, so I kill some time enjoying the rustic hospitality and marinating in my own ridiculous self-confidence. It's night by the time I hit the street and, wouldn't you know it, my meal ticket is tied to a pole. "It's a trap!" I'm not posting that Admiral Akbar image, one dreadful meme per post is my limit.

I'm quickly sold out to the guards for some pieces of silver by the tavern maid (no, really, this is what happens) and the sword and shield patrol closes in. I'm given a choice to try to run for it, but because I'M ROLE-PLAYING my emotionally hollowed-out character I decide to stand my ground and trust that I'll be fine in the face of pre-Industrial jurisprudence. It's not like I've done anything wrong and besides, I'm just traveling and am I free to go?

I get pitched into a prison cell with the people I was hoping to exploit for my own heartless gain. Does this count as irony, Alanis? Anyway, the King has so little to do that he hears our case personally, and my doomed assistants are all "We were going to tell you about the treasure right away!" which leads to a discussion of the creatively named "Dragon Mountain" instead of a prompt drawing and quartering like it would in real life. Of course, all this builds to nothing because we don't want to anger the dragons and end our policy of appeasement and delivering billions of dollars to them on pallets under the cover of darkness, so it's time for some harsh punishments in salt mines.

It turns out the one guy I barely knew as "Boke" is actually a girl named "Virgana," which I guess would mean more if we'd gotten more than a sentence worth of description prior to this point, and as such is exempt from "salt mine" duty and is assigned serving maid duty. The other, unnamed conspirator and myself, the anti-hero, can't use the woman pass, so we're offered a choice between serving at the bottom of the value chain in seasoning delivery or exile. I'll take the slave labor in an unlit, underground hell, please. How bad could it be? 

Yeah, cut it out Doyle.

As you might expect, the gig in the mine is easy and time passes quickly. Then, there's a panic, because the King has decided to seal off this part of the operation, with the prisoners still in there. I like how the unnamed Monarch is personally blamed for every bad thing that happens. Anyway, the reason we're being buried alive is because the digging accidentally hit a "dragon run" within the mountain and I'm such a piece of work that I get all excited and think this is my big chance to get that gold, instead of repenting sins and preparing to die like any sane individual would. 

Not about to let the opportunity to be the world's richest corpse slip away, I make my way deeper, eventually finding the cavern dug by a scaled metaphor for our sins. Then my torch goes out. Then I see the eyes of the monster glistening in the darkness. Everything is going according to plan. 

Instead of trying to fight the nightmare reptile in its home territory, in total darkness, with no weapon, as I feel the deranged adventurer and convicted treasure map criminal would, the book forces me to flee down another tunnel, eventually losing the flame lizard and finding a grotto. I decide not to swim across and keep going. 

That all you got? It's on now!

Another passage leads to what the author describes as "hell," complete with lava floes and the like. Then an "apelike creature," apropos of nothing, attacks. I try to run, am overwhelmed by the intense heat and die before this highly random monster can even start rending me to pieces. In some ways it seems a very fitting end.

This one was bad. Almost every new development left me rolling my eyes and the limited agency offered was just enough to provoke angry at how predictable everything ended up being. Apparently writing a compelling fantasy story about dragons is difficult and this attempt was definitely a failure.

Aaron Zehner is the author of "The Foolchild Invention" available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here. 

Choose Your Own Adventure #15: House of Danger

Last time out my running like the dickens skills averted disaster when encountering a horrifying slime monster and its human minions. I'd talk about the long delay since then, but it seems excuse-making is all I do lately and all the obvious nursing home jokes have been made, so let's just suffice it say that better days are ahead. We might even get a "DotTeeVee" episode before there's snow on the ground. Today's subject looks like a good choice to get back up on this. The premise is intriguing (a house...of danger?), the author is gray pony-tailed hippie and dwarf-hater R.A. Montgomery and the reviews I've read suggest that we're in for a wild ride. It's time for the sort-of prequel to The Horror of High Ridge which will hopefully feature the happier days before I was put into a permanent state of fear paralysis by ghosts.

That does kind of put a damper on the proceedings. Whatever I do, that's my written-in-stone future. See, this is why prequels don't work [place lame Star Wars joke here].

Get your paws off me you damn dirty...Union soldier with a whip???

I'm just waiting for something to happen in the "lab" in my parents basement. Man, it's like this book can somehow see directly into my life. "No, I didn't get a job today, Mom. Yes, I'm reviewing a children's book that came out in 1982," etc. Anyway, I'm a "psychic investigator," sort of like in Ghost Hunter. Now "lack of originality" can be added to that book's many, many sins. At least this time I wouldn't be forced to steal things because the rightful owner "makes bombs for terrorists!" Well, probably not.

I get a "weak voice" call that is suggestive of trouble, but cuts off before any valuable information can be obtained. Since it's 1982, there's no way to identify the caller. I look around the "lab," scoping out my sick digs, complete with books like "Murder in Fun." Don't go killing anyone for Slender Man, ok kid? The mysterious caller phones again, but this time I'm ready and somehow trace the number while a desperate voice is all "help" and "they've got me." The caller is identified as a "Henry Marsden" and the whole situation reminds me of the case of the "Spider Ghost." Why does it always have to be spiders?

My calm demeanor here really plays continuity havok on my fearful reaction to the paranormal in "High Ridge," but again, it's only a sort-of sequel. Different authors and everything.

I was reminded of this, not ghost spiders.

It turns out the Spider Ghost case is the source of the funding for my sweet equipment (and an FBI commendation!). Man, this protagonist is a lot better than the "I found a bottle!" hero from Book Nine. Lessons learned from that experience include the need for strength in numbers, and I'm thinking Lisa and Ricardo, who will share a "incurable fear coma" hospital room with me in the near future. I try to call, but no one's home. Deciding time is of the essence I forget about back-up and go right to the address, where I suspect there might be a house, possibly of the dangerous variety. 

I park my car (???) near one of those ultra-modern homes that eventually fell out of favor with the rise of nearly identical brown boxes. Seriously, the character in the illustration does not look old enough to have a license and this would have been a great chance to introduce one of those patented R.A. Montgomery wussy vehicles, maybe a "pedal car" or "sugar three wheeler" or the like. Instead "car." All right, whatever you say.

  I guess "Superbike" wasn't available.

It turns out the house, dangerous or not, is built on the site of a prison that burned down in 1887, killing everyone inside. Very interesting. Meanwhile, the new house is all done up in glass and I'm going to resist making a "Fountainhead" joke that maybe one person in ten thousand would get. I often wonder why that novel didn't become a pop-culture touchstone like "Atlas Shrugged?" It's every bit as long and bad, after all. 

Some guy bolts out of the house, all in a panic, and then goes down as if hit by an "invisible hammer." Grandmaster Montgomery is laying down some sick prose game, right here, aw yeah. It turns out his pursuers are some sort of animals, possibly of the intelligent, half-ape, half-man variety. The entire scene gets a huge, lovingly drawn illustration that belongs in some museum, man.

The re-release art is, predictably, less than inspiring.

I decide that the "chimpanzees" probably aren't all that tough (they're only, like, eight times our strength pound for pound, no big deal) and rush to help the fallen man. Brandishing my "pen knife" I charge at them and incredibly they retreat into a ruin near the house. See kids, carrying concealed blades solves problems. We're learning a lot. I get a small triangular scrap of paper from the man, who has died of fear! Man, 1982 didn't mess around. 

The dirty apes are back, now equipped with some sort of "blow gun" and I feel the wind of a dart flying past without result. Time to use that running like the dickens ability. Back at the car I debate reporting this to the police. "You see officer, there was this invisible hammer that ended some dude, then some Planet of the Apes-type confrontation went down and I'm driving a car even though I just turned 12." The pros and cons are weighed and the negative wins out.

 "I expect you to die, Mr. Chimp."

While waiting to "sneak up" on the house I examine the paper some more, and it turns out it's actually a chunk of "U.S. Currency." Holy fudge, the Federal Reserve is run by Ape Men!!! That crazy guy on short-wave radio has been completely vindicated. Again. 

I contemplate the possibility of a "counterfeiting animal trainer" but am forced to dismiss it as unlikely. Hey, you gotta consider all the angles. 

A limo pulls up and two Hard Men get out and approach the house. The ape-men confront them, but are ignored and then disappear. You guessed it, they're holograms being used by what is presumably the New World Order/Bilderbergers/The IRS/Whoever it is that inflicts shit like Justin Bieber on society to keep people away from whatever nefarious scheme is currently unfolding in the danger house. The men leave, carrying packages. Is it possible that I've somehow stumbled on the facility where our government created crack cocaine? 

I'm sure a pre-teen who is allowed to drive a car for some reason will defeat this.

Then I decide it must be a "gang of counterfeiters" and not my own government run amok. Good old 1982 naivete. Everything else is a neat little package, though. The monkey-illusions and scary prison remains would keep people away, and the dead man must have stumbled on the truth. Why he'd call me and not, say, someone in authority with a better weapon than a pen knife remains obscure, but we're probably almost done so let's stop questioning everything. 

I call the police, the gang is broken up, I'm a hero and hey, can't wait for that fun vacation in High Ridge!

This was a fun one. Discarding the usual R.A. Montgomery tropes really worked wonders for the quality of his writing, but I guess the urge to deliver socialist lectures, misapply nepotism, describe wimpy modes of transit and drown in unnecessary weirdness is a powerful force. Not to say the storyline I got wasn't a total mess, but it was fun and zany and let's shut off your mind dude because thinking is bad, so all is forgiven.

Check Out My Books!

Aaron Zehner is the author of "Posts from the Underground," now available in paperback and e-book. Read a free excerpt here.

His first novel The Foolchild Invention is also available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here.