Choose Your Own Adventure #23: The Lost Tribe

After another uninspired Which Way offering it's time to return to Choose Your Own Adventure. To sweeten the pot we've got another debuting author for this series, Louise Monro Foley, who was last featured on this site as the creative genius behind a Twist-a-Plot mess. Despite this, it's hard to tamp down my enthusiasm when today's subject features a glossary of Maori words and the promise of plenty of South Seas violence. Travel to exotic locations, meet interesting and exotic people, explore ancient cultures and try not to get killed and eaten. Let's go.

Engage in thrilling head-squeezing battles!

In keeping with a well-worn tradition the action kicks off with yet another wacky uncle, this one with an unhealthy interest in a Tasman Sea tribe that was exterminated in a canoe war by another, similar tribe that was better at handing out deadly violence and has since faded into legend. Genocide, head-hunting, "glowing caves;" this is clear a job for someone like myself who used the awesome power of the library (!!!) to learn some general knowledge facts about these long-dead people groups. To wit, I've even learned some crazy foreign words, mostly important stuff like "parrot" and "white man." Yeah. Really.

Y'all savages got any parrots?

With a head full of islander terms for colorful avians and delusional ideas about exploring and finding the Lost Tribe (what part of "War of Annihilation" don't you understand?) it's off to New Zealand to begin the adventure. I meet up with my uncle Charlie and his friend "Murdoch." We get equipped with supplies and build up some more hype for this well-conceived expedition. I might even see "skeletal remains!" I still cling to the possibility of finding actual living members of the Lost Tribe, in spite of more attempts to explain the whole concept of how they were killed en masse and then, presumably, cooked.

Naturally, things start going wrong almost immediately as Charlie and Murdoch forget the archeological tools that we will need to hunt for exciting human remains and decide it's wise to go back and get them while leaving me alone in a jungle to "set up camp." But not before giving me an official permit to show government officials, because having ihnen papiern is a lot higher on the priority list than the numerous dangers this environment offers. I'm even given the chance to wander off once they're gone, but decide maybe I should get that camp going, like I promised.

No one without a permit will be allowed in the Great Patriotic War.

While setting up tents or whatever a dog pops out of the bushes and knocks me down, provoking unpleasant Sugarcane Island flashbacks. Luckily, this is a much more effort-intense narrative, so the encounter with the dingo is followed by a shirtless native who calls me "white man" (that library trip keeps paying off, see kids!) in a scornful fashion while brandishing a tomahawk. Granted, my polyglot privilege isn't actually useful as I get punked out (he's more muscular and I don't even squat, you see) and tied up with vines to be frog-marched deeper into the forest. If only I'd learned how to say "I taste terrible" instead of "parrot."

It turns out there's more tribesmen and they've also captured Charlie and Murdoch, somehow. I mean, they left in a boat in the opposite direction, yet here they are bound, completely helpless and ready to be mistreated in hot, hot ways. Apparently the villains "got their boat" but I'm really not content with that fig covering what may be a minor logical error in a children's book from 1983. This probably doesn't matter, because they're debating where to kill us, in English I guess, unless I also learned all fifty of this tribe's words for "murder the captives" at that amazing library where you can really get that learn on, young people.

I'm giving a choice between trying to run and simply resigning myself to our fate, so of course I choose the path of resigned despair. That should improve the situation!

You're questioning my cowardly defeatism because you have "weak nerves."

So it's more marching in search of a more suitable place to get murdered. During this tedium Charlie informs me that our captors are actually escaped convicts from the Auckland prison, so that's at least good news. Instead of being grilled to mouth-watering perfection by savages they're just going to kill us and leave the bodies for carrion animals. Enjoying this story so far, kids? First they want our boat, and it turns out I've got the only set of keys. The logical course of action obvious.

The keys go into the drink and the criminals are less than thrilled, but gullible enough to believe that my uncle is now willing to hot wire the boat for them, if they just cut him loose first. They even decide to cut me loose too in order to "make something to eat." Can we outwit New Zealand's dumbest criminals? Turn to the next page to find out!

I put "roach powder" in the food and it promptly gives painful stomach cramps to the most trusting hard cases in the entire world. Rendered helpless, it's an easy matter to get the boat going, turn in the escapees to local authorities and celebrate our victory with an steak dinner because they now "don't trust my cooking." As for the Lost Tribe, I guess we won't be finding all their split open skulls, but life is for the living and all that.

This one wasn't bad, although I wasn't expecting a crime thriller based on the set-up. Either way, it was perfectly serviceable and the gaping logic holes would probably be less obvious to the intended audience. Besides, a rare happy ending covers any number of sins and it's not often that displaying apathetic resignation in the face of deadly danger is rewarded, as we all know it should be.

Yeah, get over yourself.

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 #16: Survival at Sea

After dying of altitude sickness and leaving behind a beautiful frozen corpse that will presumably be found and revived by the future miracle society that will replace the compost heap we're living in right now, I figured it was a good idea to stay with the survival theme. I'm a big fan, clearly. Think about it: Mother Nature really is the ultimate villain. She's totally insane, has neither mercy or remorse and only sees us as a biological singularity that needs to be returned to a happy stasis serving as fuel for her murderous savage gardens. Today this relentless force of evil will take the form of the South Pacific, as it's time to float that boat and feel the motion of the ocean.

 You're not welcome in my grim man vs. nature story, Seasick Sea Serpent Cecil.

Through channels unnamed I've managed to ingratiate myself to a Dr. Vivaldi, an expert on anthropology. At first glance this is a stock Edward Packard character, but even that dismissive assessment is giving Fast Eddie too much credit. There's really no continuity between her appearances or memorable personality traits, so I think it's fair to say she's a reoccurring name he uses. As lazy and pathetic as this is, I guess it does spare us from having a Dr. Mussorgsky or Professor Bartok, so there's that.

Anyway, she's all "Want to go sailing in search of a dinosaur that might still be out there?" and naturally I'm an eager participant in this plan, totally ignoring the fact that this isn't, strictly speaking, the sort of thing an anthropologist does. I suppose I should glass-half-full this thing and just be happy it's not my Uncle trying to use a boat to work out his relationship issues. We're joined by action men Eric and Jack and I'm doing my best to ignore how derivative of earlier Packard books this all is. We'll be setting sail on a boat called the Allegro. Yes, #amwriting newbies, classical music should be your go-to source whenever you need to name something.

 At least it wasn't this Allegro.

Before sailing I listen to a televised interview with an Australian captain who insists he saw the sea monster, although he conveniently leaves out the part where he'd been drinking those over-sized beers all morning. Still, Dr. Mozart Vivaldi is intrigued and insists that the part of the ocean where this dipsomania-fueled encounter allegedly happened would be the perfect environment for this dinosaur. How she would know this  based on her educational credentials is a mystery, although I guess there is such a thing as a talented amateur.

Two days later we're sailing through calm sees, keeping a watch for any Cretaceous period anomalies that might pop up. Instead, we get a message on the radio informing us that a volcano 200 miles away has erupted. This is a Bad Thing because it causes deadly waves, we are told. Eric, who I guess doesn't really take the long view, insists this is our only chance to find the living fossil and that we should sail into the "danger zone." Suffice it to say, I don't find that argument compelling.

Metal under tension beggin' you to touch and go

I'm immediately told my sissy decision doesn't even matter, because here's a fifty foot high wave! Yeah, that's really what happens. All aboard the Survival at Sea railroad, all stops have tidal waves. Ugh. I somehow grab the wheel while we're catching this totally gnarly surf and must decide "which way to steer." I honestly don't think it matters at this particular moment, but figure it would make the most sense not to try to go left or right while in the middle of shooting the curl.

Naturally this leads to my horrible death as another wave is right there to finish the job. If this is what playing it safe gets you I can't even imagine what the "danger zone" would have entailed. Major wipe out, dude.

I did, but it didn't help any.

Another short failed run and this time the book was at fault and not your humble reader. This one sucked.  I should mention the lame gimmick I never got to use: a map on page 13 to help make navigational decisions. Well, the only decision I got to make about our course was choosing between danger zone and non-danger zone. For some reason non-danger zone turned out to be super deadly. Why even give limited agency if it doesn't matter? This problem has been the downfall of many of these books, and Survival at Sea is just another one for that pile. 

This, on the other hand, totally owns.

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 #12: Inside UFO 54-40

Last time out my danger sense failed to protect me from deadly ice and a promising "You've got ESP!" yarn ended in abrupt and meaningless tragedy. This time we've got one of the most memorable books in the series, featuring a lame gimmick that teaches kids valuable lessons about how rules are for suckers and cheaters always prosper. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We're going to be dealing with the 1982 non-probing version of alien abduction and might well end up in a galactic zoo. Let's get this mother on.

 Vertical mouth, stiff and upright cigar shaped object, head...paging Dr. Freud...

Before we start the story proper we get a "Special Warning!!!!" outlining the ill-conceived Gordian knot that would earn semi-immortality for this one. It involves the search for Ultima, the planet of paradise, not to be confused with the dreadful Perfect Planet by the same author. Packard had some issues with removing the flaws from solar satellites, no doubt about that. Anyway, one can't reach Ultima by making choices or following instructions, which basically implies this paradise is going to be full of dangerous psychopaths.

The solution, of course, is to just leaf through the book until you find the entry containing Ultima, since no decision leads there. As a very wise man once said "Too clever is stupid." 

No Ultima for me on this read-through. I'm going to follow the rules like a sucker and thus insure failure, just like in real life.

 Children's programing for your budding sociopath.

I'm chilling in a supersonic concord, crossing the Atlantic, reflecting on how supersonic travel is the inevitable wave of the future, along with removing airport security as society reaches moral perfection and such intrusions are unnecessary. I'm heading toward Paris for reasons unknown, maybe to see an iron lattice tower or something. While straining to see Greenland out the window a glistening object rushes toward the plane. I do a heavily truncated version of that Captain Kirk Twilight Zone episode and black out, waking up in circular room. An alien voice in my head explains I've been recruited for a galactic zoo. 

Is it wrong that I think this would be a pretty sweet gig? Is "I'd be willing to be a zoo animal for aliens" a sign of personal weakness? Nah, probably not. It was righteous as hell in Slaughterhouse Five, after all. Put in a fake stock ticker and watch me go crazy, maybe some hot actress, aw yeah.

 So...it...goes!!!

I make a pathetic demand to be sent back home, which produces the dismissive response you might expect from an intelligence that has mastered both interstellar travel and telepathy. I'm floated down a passageway and deposited in a room with other humans. I'm all "Hey, fellow Terrans!" but at the same time I'm really eager to get some sleep going. You know what, this zoo thing is probably going to work out. Just learn to like eating for hours and being stared at and I'll have the full skill set.

You can get to Robot Storage by following directions...I think.

When I wake up there's a metal compliance band around my head, beaming in pacifying thoughts sort of like in that Roddy Piper movie where he doesn't have any gum. I'm told I'll be happy if I'm good. Pulling at the device produces pain, so I decide to leave it on and bide my time. Obviously, in a book so anti-authority it demands you break its own rules this is the wrong move. I start to feel really groovy, but then have a freak-out just like a square adult alcoholic and "time stops." Yeah. 

I can't prove that Edward Packard did lots of drugs when he was younger, but I could build a strong circumstantial case. I'm just saying.

 You take "The Ticket" and have a "Bum Trip." The End.

From what I experienced, this one is probably pretty good overall. There's a lot of wild stuff going on, that's for sure. It's too bad that finding Ultima overshadows everything else, especially considering how lame the problem and solution really is. When I was twelve I found the Ultima entry and then tried to reverse-engineer how to get there by finding the relevant choice, which didn't exist. When I'm on my death bed I'm really going to want those fifteen minutes back.

Quick, turn to page 101!

Check Out My Books!

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

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

Choose Your Own Adventure #10: The Lost Jewels of Nabooti

When you last checked in with your hero he was confronting murderous ghosts, holding a campfire sing-a-long and entering a permanent fear coma. After that harrowing experience I'm definitely welcoming the toothless nonsense that's likely to be in this R.A. Montgomery entry. We'll keep an eye out for the usual trademarks: wussy vehicles, incorrectly applied nepotism, horrible deaths described in the most banal fashion possible and the extreme moon bat views of an unreconstructed hippie.

This one has seen several different releases, but I was lucky enough to get the original, complete with always excellent Paul Granger illustrations. You don't fully appreciate how good they were until you read one of the new versions and see art that looks like the result of someone in day five of a ten day cold coughing into an already soiled napkin.

One other thing, I promise we'll start flipping pages soon. I do remember this title from my misspent childhood, although nothing specific about the plot has stayed with me. This isn't necessarily a bad sign, you have to remember a significant amount of my memories have been destroyed by joy stick addiction, NASCAR viewing and inhaling paint thinners. One thing I do remember is I always thought the title was "The Lost Jewels of Nairobi" as in Nairobi, Kenya. That would have made sense, but I guess the African capital heard that it was going to be an R.A. Montgomery book and demanded not to have their name included. So we gin up the fictional and vaguely offensive "Nabooti" and all is well.

40 meter dash through an Afro, falling deaths, the usual.

We don't waste any time, as my "summer vacation" is abruptly spoiled by a telegram (!) from my cousins Peter and Lucy requesting help finding the titular jewels. I would bet a six-pack of Coke Classic that this missive became an e-mail in the updated version. Honestly, a telegram? Even in 1981 that must have seemed pretty dated. Are we going to have to add "poor understanding of how sending messages has evolved since the 19th century" to that R.A. Montgomery trope list?

Anyway, exposition. The jewels are apparently both beautiful and valuable, and were acquired in Morocco by Peter's father many years earlier. We get a shaggy dog story about how the vendor mysteriously died right after the sale and the buyer got a threatening letter demanding their return. "Obviously, he ignored the letter," we are told. I mean, of course, right? Who puts any stock into credible death threats. Then...nothing. Until now, that is. 

Does this count as the not-quite-right nepotism? I'm going to say "yes."

The new cover art sucks.

With that box checked off, I leave my house in New Orleans and head for Boston. Why this specific bit of location detail is included is somewhat of a mystery, considering my Cajun origins are never mentioned again and the bulk of the story takes place in foreign lands. I meet with the cousins and we plan to fly to Paris and then Morocco from there. It's also revealed the jewels play into some ill-conceived prophecy and their loss might lead to DEATH! Yes, "DEATH." Subtlety is usually not the strong suit of the type of person that rambles semi-coherently about fate, destiny, and the secret keys to "health." 

Maybe you could just exercise regularly and eat right instead of assuming jewels control that, just sayin'.

The prophecy, fulfilled!

We get the next flight for Paris. Sadly, it's a commercial jet and not some wussy glider or sissy personal submarine. I'm sure we'll get something like that, let's just be patient. The guy next to me is sketchy, both literally and figuratively. He's illustrated like one the commie spies from Your Code Name is Jonah and is busy doodling on a pad. Yes, kids, there was a time when having your head down and poking at a tiny square surface was considered highly unusual and suspicious. Plus his hands have no nails, so there's that, too.

What is he drawing? Well, it's crude diamond shapes and the word "Nabooti." I guess this is in case he regresses back to the mental state of a toddler and must re-learn basic shapes to complete his evil mission. On the other hand, feel the drama. It's a bad guy! Dun, dun, dun!

"This can not be coincidence!" I decide. Yeah, I think I might be right about that one.

Faced with these shocking revelations I fall asleep. When I wake up we're in Paris and this bumbling villain wants to share a taxi, preferably an unlicensed one, I'm sure. Honestly, there's more telegraphing here than in the message that drew me into this amazing adventure. I tell him "no."

 Cut it out. Seriously, cut it out. Don't make me come back there and stop that unbooked minicab.

I melt into the crowd and then hide in a phone booth, for the second badly dated communications reference so far. It probably became an "internet cafe" in the updated release. Then I'm confronted by a "woman and a midget." They offer a private jet to Nabooti, presumably an unlicensed one, and the Little Person leers menacingly while handling a "small knife with a narrow blade." Maybe I can still get into that kidnap cab.

I try a lame "I know nussink!" routine, which leads to a silent whistle and the arrival of police dogs, I guess of the "just add water" variety because I'm in the middle of a crowd and there was no sign of them before. I'm arrested for "smuggling" and end up in a Parisian shake-down room. All of this seems very familiar.

"We're still cool levitating scimitar, right?"

For some reason there's a pearl on my person, with no plausible explanation of how it got there. Facing both barrels of French "justice" I decide to dodge the guillotine by contacting the American embassy. I have rights, etc. I'm told to give up the quest for the jewels and go back to the good old U.S.A. and agree to do so. Well, that's a tidy little package. 

Thumbs down for this one. Not one, but two obvious traps in a row, followed by the sort of gestapoism that probably seemed novel in 1981 but is commonplace today. I know these books are not intended to stimulate an adult mind full of mature ideas and deep understanding of the world, but this one just felt patronizing. Why would Agent Evil make doodles of his nefarious plans? Why are there scary ankle-biters? How come I can't use my New Orleans upbringing to relate culturally to the French and smooth over the unpleasantness? And where's the wussy vehicles?

Mr. Happy can not save you from your crashed sugar glider.

  

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.

Choose Your Own Adventure #27: The Horror of High Ridge

Last time out a space adventure ended with total defeat and hopelessness after shooting a missile. Yeah, it was that kind of book. Luckily today's subject is one I fondly remember giving me many months of nightmares when I read it as a child. And not for nothing, it's full of morbid violence, gore, lovingly crafted illustrations of children dying horribly and an overall sense of being doomed. I don't think a book like this could be made today and even back in an era where "use your discretion" still meant something it attracted negative attention from the professional guardians of the right and proper.

This one is by Julius Goodman, author of Space Patrol. Some consider this a sequel to "House of Danger," because the same characters are present, but there isn't a single mention of those earlier adventures with supernatural evil, so it's at best a sequel in spirit. At no point does anyone say "remember when we did [x] in the house of danger?" or "I kinda assumed my deadly confrontations with pure refined horror were over after that whole 'house' thing."

Who will survive and what will be left of them?

I'm spending the summer in the western American town of High Ridge, wasting my days searching for a buried treasure that probably doesn't exist and spending my nights maxin' and relaxin' in a chair, reading books about the town's rather lurid history. Apparently prospectors and the native population engaged in a genocidal war where both sides lost, but have since regrouped in hell to continue the fight. Every fifty years there's an "incident" where they come back to resume their unwinnable struggle and the local population becomes collateral damage, disappearing or suffering "ghastly deaths."

Yeah, we're in for quite a ride. The book I'm reading, by the way, is called "High Ridge: An Oral History" which is a quality oxymoron.

It just so happens that this year marks fifty years since the last event and I'm hearing a horrible moaning. No, not that you pervert. We're going to earn that "R" rating just with horrible violence, thank you.

    Recommended for ages 8-12.

My danger house crew joins me. Ricardo is all "let's go out and get murdered by vengeful ghosts, it'll be fun!" while Lisa is takes the "anti" position on getting involved with undying killers. Naturally, I'm the tie-breaker and decide that it might be best not to do things that are actively stupid considering what we're up against.

The plan to stay inside and avoid trouble is quickly ruined by an arrow coming through the window and then disappearing after burying itself in the wall. I think a certain amount of freaking out would be justified.

Time to do the smart thing and try to get out of town in the jeep. Let's just pretend I'm not aware of the above illustration. This attempt to take the logical course of action is immediately defeated, of course, because this is the horror genre. A rockslide has covered the road, making escape impossible. Meanwhile Ricardo is having an episode, claiming to have seen "Indians." 

In fine "Aliens" tradition I decide to make "camp" here. Maybe roast a few marshmallows and sing some songs. The game is most certainly not over, we'll be fine.

"The arrow disappeared in the freakin' WALL, man!"

A fun night is spent huddling on the softer gravel and morning brings a trip to the hospital, a hospital already overflowing with victims. A news article wraps things up. Ten dead. Fifteen, myself and my friends included, lost in "fear comas," trapped in a state of living death. The town has been cordoned off and will presumably be wiped off the map by our federal government. Yeah, that's the end. 

This read-through actually featured what might be the most bloodless route through this book, but I still lost my life and soul to the evil. Most outcomes are even worse. 

This book is great. It doesn't pull any punches, the plot is actually rather thoughtful and the atmosphere never lets up. Choose Your Own Adventure always excelled at doing horror and this is arguably the best example. While The Mystery of Chimney Rock might have an edge in creepiness and unsettling imagery there's no denying this one is much more visceral. I'm still going to keep the lights on when I read it.

You and your friends are dead.

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.

Choose Your Own Adventure #4: Space and Beyond

Last time I was finally able to track down an edition of a mass market paperback intended for children for less than $1000.00, American, and was rewarded with cold war adventure. This time out I'm still filling in the single-digit offerings, turning to the second R.A. Montgomery book. If his previous outings have taught me anything, it's to expect poorly applied nepotism, wimpy and impractical vehicles and lots of horrible death. How can you go wrong?

 Rejected title: "Intergalactic Sugar Gliders"

The introduction is short, but loaded with details that seem absolutely pregnant with possibility, but are presented with "oh well" banality. It's the far future and I was born on a star ship (presumably a goofy looking and under-performing one) to parents from two different galaxies. These galaxies are apparently less than exotic, their homeworlds resembling a planet called "earth" more than anything. The not-quite-right nepotism kicks in when I'm informed that I'm turning 18 and because I was born in the void of space I can choose my planet of "citizenship." Apparently every inhabited planet now has only one nation, different galaxies regularly interact, up to and including doing the wild thing in deep space and faster-than-light travel is common. This is a lot to swallow all at once.

I should also point out that during the review of "Your Code Name is Jonah" I speculated that was the only book in this series where you play an adult and I'm immediately proven wrong. Oh well, even the Superb Owl winner lost in the regular season.

I get a choice between two planets and naturally pick the one that is three times the size of earth (looking forward to being pinned to the ground by the gravity), has a dying sun and "history full of trouble." Honestly, who wouldn't choose that planet, especially when the other choice is menaced by "Black Holes" and "Super Novas" and maybe whatever other "space" concept the author could find after skimming the entry in World Book Encyclopedia.

   The 1980s version of the internet.

Now the wussy vehicle is unveiled, a one-man "spacepod" that looks like something Fisher Price would reject as too fanciful. Anyway, I leave the "Mother Ship" and promptly things begin to go wrong. Oh no, a nebula! Man, that "World Book" snark really was right on the money. I hope I live long enough to see the "asteroid belt" or "Planet Pluto" or whatever other crazy general knowledge menace pops up next.

Taking a page from some space film that's probably too obscure for any of you to recognize I "trust my instincts" and try to make my way through, despite now being hammered by a meteor shower! The book suggests I "radio for help" which considering the vastness of the stellar ocean seems fairly pointless, so instead I deploy two of my strongest virtues: "waiting and hoping." Surely my awesome hoping powers will save me from a Universe determined to destroy my dorky glider analogue.

   This cover suggest a story that's righteous as all hell in a blatant bit of false advertising.

I hit the "advance" button and instead of getting next week's paycheck now I'm flung into a "transit zone" which is a "space highway" cluttered with traffic. This author really didn't understand the whole "universe is vast and mostly empty" concept that often gets forgotten in the race to discuss the more sexy topics like meteorites and red shift. 

So I join a caravan. It's like this nonsense should have been in By Balloon to Sahara but they ran out of room while developing that whole awful "salt aliens" sub-plot and it was held over to the next book where it was inserted in such a seamless fashion. Just change "camels" to "star ships" and you're basically done.

Are you allowed to smoke in one of those?

I fall in with an alien woman of the non-sexy variety who is running "black hole dust" to some backwater called "Earth" where the population thinks it has anti-aging properties. We both get a good laugh about that one, and can only shake our heads at the shallowness of the people she plans on ripping off for a profit. I arrive, and my main impression is the "tall ugly buildings." Thousands of years of literature, art, science, philosophy and cuckold pornography and this is the impression we make on visitors. The Earth tourism and development people are really dropping the ball.

I decide to stay. The author hammers home how much Earth sucks (wars, genocides, rape of the natural world, riddled with racial prejudice, ignorant, judgmental and that guy over there shoved me) but since I'm going to stay I have to find some sort of silver lining and I do in something called the "United Nations."

Yeah, really.

Of all the diverse achievements of humanity the only one that rates mention is an ill-conceived N.W.O. tyrant enabling and shoe-pounding assembly. If that was really all we've ever done that had any value I would welcome the disintegrator rays from the galactic community.

You know what, I think I can figure out your position without asking.

This one really drowned in the typical R.A. Montgomery tropes. I guess the story deserves some credit for being imaginative, but being forced to portray Space Obama ruined everything.

Aaron Zehner's first novel The Foolchild Invention is available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here.

Choose Your Own Adventure #6: Your Code Name is Jonah

Last time out my promising, if small time, ghostbusting career was severely derailed by a series of plot elements that could charitably be called "hot garbage." Still smarting from that bad experience, I wanted to try a book I remembered from my childhood and knew would be a can't miss good time.

Actually, I wanted to do "Jonah" from the very beginning, but there was just one small problem that I'll illustrate below.

The government gets better deals on pens and pencils.

It's even more a rip-off when you consider there's a chance you'll get the lame reprint "Spy Trap," the copy you'll get in "acceptable" condition will resemble half a shoebox worth of confetti and every other CYOA book sells for a penny used. I honestly have no idea why the price on this one is so inflated, although it is one of the better and more memorable early entries. Are people really paying several hundred dollars for a battered mass market paperback? I can't get over this.

Anyway, after months of regular checking I finally found a copy for less than a dollar. It turned out to be the original version and in pretty good condition, so suck on that 80s children's book profiteers.

Seventy dollars. One star vendor rating. Lowest possible condition. What. The. Fudge.

I almost feel I should seal this bad boy in a vault or buy special insurance for it rather than read it, but I've got an uncompensated job to do and I take that very seriously. Like I hinted at earlier, this one is very different. You play an adult, for one, which might be the only time in this series that happens. And no, I don't want some crank to e-mail me a correction if that's wrong. You're a spy, there's cold war goodness and plenty of bad endings where you die horribly or get told you're a failure because you have a conscience. All right, the former isn't that unusual, but the latter is. Sort of.

None of this "pistol in each hand" silliness. Try a pistol and an AK. 

I'm in a sub-basement beneath the White House, a few doors down from the department that reads all your e-mails and the one that selects any right of center group for severe I.R.S. audits. My boss is "glaring" at me, which seems a bit much considering this is nothing more than a mission briefing. He wants to know what I know about whale songs and I humor him in the most patronizing way possible. I'm here to disarm bombs, seduce women with ridiculous sexually-themed names and fire off one-liners. Learning about aquatic mammals isn't even on the radar.

Despite my obvious lack of interest we plow forward with a story about a whale researcher who is trying to figure out why these excellent sources of lamp oil are vanishing. It appears a new whale song might unlock the mystery, but then Captain Science pulled his own disappearing act and we have reason to believe that the Reds might be involved, including KGB all-star "Double-Eye," who is presumably a young Vladimir Putin. I've got to find the missing egg-head, give fist imprints and lead injections to the Bolsheviks and solve the mystery of the new song. It's no "They might be stealing Bolivia's water!" but it will have to do.

The plot, more or less.

I decide to start with an interrogation and possible water-boarding of the last person to see the wayward scientist before his disappearance, a "Dr. Klein." He says they were using an "omputer" to analyze the song, but with the team head gone, the project has stalled out. Maybe you could go on the "ternet" and see if you can find any help there. I'm guessing I somehow obtained the extremely rare "typo on page four" version, so I'll be adding a few hundred dollars to the resale price. 

Fortunately this riveting discussion of the sounds emitted by Moby Dick is cut short by The Agency calling to alert me to a "Anton Roudnitska" a Soviet Agent planning to make his escape from a seaside farmhouse by boat to a waiting submarine. There's reason to believe this guy knows where the missing researcher is. I politely tell Klein that listening to his mix tape of cetacean vocal melodies will just have to wait. It's time to tackle the evil empire's shadow soldiers.

This is a real image that has not been altered in any way.

I take the next flight to Halifax, walking right on board with multiple guns in my hands because it's 1980 and that's how the world was back then if the evidence I've pieced together from discarded cans of "Billy Beer" is at all reliable. At the airport I'm met by a car. A young woman claims she's from the "Canadian Intelligence Office" and that I should get in the car. Already working on horrible "Canadian beaver" wordplay after I inevitably seduce her I get in and am promptly sandwiched between two armed thugs, both pressing the heat in my guts. Then I get clubbed over the head, which seems somewhat excessive at this point.

"We fight shadow wars, eh."

Now begins the obligatory "I expect you to die, Mr. Bond!" scene as I wake up in a farm house, chained to a bed. Yeah, apparently living in a closed society with rigid restrictions on free expression leads to kinkiness. Well, at least it does in 2013 America. The reference to "rubbing my throbbing head" certainly does little to remove my thoughts from the gutter. 

Anyway, Stalin's Secret Fun Club wants me to answer a call from the missing scientist and then encourage "Russian cooperation" as the only viable solution to the whale crisis. Yes, kids, there was a time when getting someone to sell out America required this sort of violent, convoluted set-up. They're all "do it or die" so I go along, hoping the researcher will realize I'm just trolling. 

The real "save the whales" heroes, right here.

I have a short conversation with the Big Brain, hoping he'll pick up on my sarcastic tone of voice, unlike everyone else I talk to. The KGB goons are appeased by my performance and announce it's time to "chain me back to the bed." Someone, somewhere on the internet, has probably used this scene as inspiration to write "Your Code Name is Jonah" gay bondage erotica. 

While getting frog-marched the other red operative yells "Hey Vladimir!" Man, did I call that or what. I use this distraction to break free of the Kung Fu grip of the future President of Russia and escape through a window under a "hail of bullets." Ok, that kicked ass. 

Everything is quickly wrapped up. The enemy spies have fled with false intel, the researcher is rescued and it turns out Anton Roudnitska, that guy I was hunting before my ignominious capture, is actually one of our people in deep cover. Nice try Boris, you almost had us, but freedom and democracy are victorious. Oh, and about the whale song and the missing whales? Not important any more, I guess.

This was as good as I remembered. Not three hundred dollars worth of good, of course, but worth checking out in the unlikely event you find a semi-reasonable price. The spy story is generally solid and original. There's lots of classic illustrations, gun play and a tone that while perhaps not mature is at least serious and consistent.

 

Aaron Zehner's first novel The Foolchild Invention is available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here.

Choose Your Own Adventure #3: By Balloon to the Sahara

It looks like the theme of traveling into a travel no-go zone via less than optimal means is going to continue, building off my previous adventures in Africa where snitching was rewarded and heartless worst aid was not. This time around it's all about a balloon and, judging by the cover, just about every bizarre non-sequitur that could be shoe-horned in. I mean, look at this nonsense. We've got the titular balloon, a big-eared martian holding a bag labeled "salt," a North African whose appearance suggests Pancho Villa more than a Berber tribesman, a submarine, and a dog that looks like the non-union version of Snoopy.

Author D. Terman is the only guy not named "Packard" or "Montgomery" to write a single-digit CYOA. Unless he actually is one or both of those guys, which is pretty likely, actually. The world's best Choose Your Own Adventure site is little help on this front and further muddies the waters by declaring this book is "average...with no terribly notable features." I don't even want to know what kind of upbringing causes a person to regard salt-bag aliens as relatively ordinary.

Anyway, this book gets right into the story with a bare minimum of set-up. I'm in Paris with my friends. We decide to rent a hot-air balloon. There's a dog. That's the entire back-story. D. Terman, if you are a real person, I salute you. Later in the series we get page after boring page of largely irrelevant details and lame attempts at useless garbage like "description" and "characterization." Here, it's right to the balloony goodness. Which, by the way, is currently floating toward a storm. Fortunately I have an advanced degree in sugar gliders.

  It would be hard to make an ironic comment if something bad happened.

This time the "low = crash = bad" formula is only somewhat effective. We do make it past the storm, but instead of reaching the Alps we're over the Mediterranean Sea, floating toward Africa and the Sahara desert. I guess this would have been a bigger shock if it wasn't for massive spoilers in the title, but the author promises us "cities in white with minarets, cool oases with date palms (trees, not the lonely Friday night version I'm assuming) and Arabs in flowing white robes." Sure, there will also be inhospitable wasteland, starvation and/or dehydration and a lack of cell phone coverage, but I'm already convinced. Desert it is. 

"Please keep your "grassland" propaganda to yourself, we find it offensive."

Drifting over the desert we take note of the sand, the caravans, the oases and so on while largely ignoring what a terrible idea this actually is. Then, a flying saucer, just chilling there in the open, right on top of the sun's anvil, acting all natural. Should we make contact with the UFO people? My friend Peter is worried we might get probed or worse, but honestly who would pass up a chance like this? Odds are good they're the friendly, wussy E.T. types and not the violent, imperialistic Will Smith movie ones. Pull the cord, head on down.

Seems credible.

Wackiness ensues as the creatures from the cover assume our dog is our leader, complete with bowing to him and the like. See, this is why mastering practical interstellar flight is considered "book learnin'" and not "street smarts." Next thing we know we're in the saucer getting knocked out by "red mist." Well, let's just get the inevitable body cavity violations and mutant cross-breeding experiments over with.

What actually happens is arguably even more ridiculous. The visitors need ordinary table salt to fuel their "space-time" machine, but can't seem to figure out how to get it from "fierce desert men" that are guarding a warehouse full of this White Gold. Apparently just taking their green asses to a "Denny's" and loading up all the shakers, which are not guarded by fierce men, desert or otherwise, is not an option.

I'm pretty sure assault shakers have extra handles and large capacity salt magazines.

They ask for my help, because a child is sure to succeed where advanced extraterrestrial intelligence failed. I'm all "no." The leader is all "kill them." Apparently the promise to go "in peace" was an incorrect attempt to say "in pieces" which you have to concede alters the meaning considerably. So we get "blated" and die a horrible, meaningless death because the spacemen couldn't figure out that they could use the "blat" guns on the "fierce desert men" and didn't study their Rosetta Stone program hard enough. The (BLAT) End, as the book puts it.

This one was a bit of a mess. I think there was some good ideas here but the decision to be straight-to-the-point cuts both ways. What could have been cool and atmospheric is largely forgettable and cliched as a result. In fairness the horrible "wacky space invaders" plot killed any good will the book might have otherwise garnered and I can only assume some of the other directions would have been better. Either way, it's a fast read and that's always the highest praise any writer can hope for, possibly second only to "I liked the ending."

I did not like the ending.

 BLAT!!!!

Aaron Zehner's first novel The Foolchild Invention is available in e-book format at Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.