Choose Your Own Adventure #25: Prisoner of the Ant People

The last time we dusted one of these off, back around Halloween, I took over the role of Batman and defeated an attempt by the Riddler to pull off some funny business at the Federal Reserve that had nothing to do with the massive crimes those real life financial super villains commit on a daily basis. Meanwhile, the timeline for completing the Choose Your Own Adventure series has been altered from "I'll still be doing this in my nineties" to "I'll still be doing this 10,000 years from now, in hell." The last review was in 2016, for crying out loud. Honestly, I'm trying my best, the difficulty in acquiring some titles and the curse of having so many brilliant ideas that there isn't time to properly address them all have taken a heavy toll, but here we go again.

  Those aren't Ant People, they're just huge ants.

The cover promises all sorts of crazy adventure, but it also contains the name "R.A. Montgomery," so it would probably be wise to temper those expectations. Let's dig in. I'm maxing and relaxing in my "living sphere," a perfect futuristic environment that can create holographs for my own amusement. Yes, the coolest thing from Star Trek: The Next Generation was actually stolen from a forgotten entry in a wildly uneven series. Anyway, I decide to get up into a Greek villa, but there's no time for this sensory onanism: an emergency is occurring. 

It turns out I'm part of something called "Zondo Group." Instead of being the bottom line, it's a wussy three-entity (myself, a robot and a martian) science squad dedicated to fighting someone called "The Evil Power Master." Besides bad branding, this worthy is apparently busy disintegrating matter in blatant violation of the law of conservation of such. Around here we obey the trite rules of the universe I learned in Middle School, so it's time to use reason and hippy idealism and certainly not direct violence to stop the destruction of our precious vital atomic structure.   

Not to be confused with the "Zombie Squad." This movie also cured my near-fatal "missed Rambo" disease.

This isn't to imply that I'm not kind of bitchy about this whole enterprise. I totally am, but the R2-D2 ripoff Rendox-Oll assures me in goofy half-poetic language that we must stop the coming annihilation of everything that matters. The third member of the team, a green-skinned Martian (Yeah, really) named "Flppto" is somewhat more fatalistic about the possibility of total physical annihilation, wondering what would happen, as if dying in this fashion would be some kind of fun adventure and not the most horrific possible fate made reality.

More robotic freak-outs follow, as we're told that another research team has vanished. Flppto's heartless reaction is basically "Oh well, can't mourn forever," earning the disapproval of the floating trash can who makes that "Lost in Space" bot look like a model of dignified self-control. Also, some other team is missing, too. Just keep raising the stakes, I guess. This is the heart of quality drama. It's also a cheap device to offer up the first choice, but after several pages of exposition it's welcome, one way or another.

The new, edgier re-boot.

I decide to "keep watch" while the rest of the team does the searching. This cowardly pragmatism is likely to be rewarded, right? I even quote one the rules demanding that someone stay behind at all times, like I'm a lawyer or something. Our hero. Naturally, this causes my robo-buddy to go nuts, declare that rules can be broken and then zap it's organic teammates with a "purple ray." Time to kiss the sky. 

As you probably already assumed, the friendly mechanical assistant is actually a "warrior ant" in disguise, shedding his lame and uninspired steel facade to reveal this deception. This is followed by villainous bragging, where the ant militarist declares the superiority of his species, our total defeat and even claims his fellow Formicidae have captured the Evil Power Master and what we thought was the real threat is now merely a puppet of creatures that ruin picnics.

Faced with this outrage, I exert will to try to resist the pacification ray. It's weak, but it's better than the other choice, which involved begging for mercy from a creature with acid blood and a hive mind. Somehow this works. We're almost done, let's just go with it. I blast the insect menace with a "pest eliminator" beam and the horrific monster that somehow successfully infiltrated a research station is completely defeated. Now to go find those missing teams, suggests an ending that really leaves us with a lot more questions than answers.

Seriously, there was a giant ant in that robot body the entire time? Really???

Hello, fellow Americans. I'm one of you, don't worry.

I actually thought this one was decent. Maybe taking a vacation of several dozen months has mellowed me on the whole R.A. Montgomery experience, but I'll take stupid and unbelievable over deary and patronizing, given those two options. Besides, disguised giant ant. That was really something. Wow.

You won this round, human, but the fight isn't over.

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 #13: The Abominable Snowman

Last time I discovered "TV Wrestling" was actually real and then paid the ultimate price for that shocking revelation. Now it's time to review some R.A. Montgomery drivel that's been hanging around my neck like an albatross for quite awhile. It was the only early book I hadn't done, but for some reason finding a copy proved extremely difficult as apparently there's massive demand and little supply for a forgettable mass market paperback from a long-dead series. After many false-starts and disappointments I finally was able to score a copy and it's even the original and not the sad reissue.

Even more incredible the battered and heavily-taped pocketbook was originally property of a library that's ten minutes drive from my house. If only I'd gone to one of those "library ruined book sales" with the cat lady and that old guy that bellows incoherently at everyone I could have saved myself a lot of misery. But now I guess I have to read it, so there's no dodging that agony. Still, this finishes off the first 20 books. My common core addition skills tell me I should be able to complete every book in about twenty-seven years, give or take and accounting for the occasional 2 + 2 = 5. I can only hang my head and weep silently.

The holy grail of my c.y.o.a. collection.

I'm a mountain climber, an expert at defeating elevated rock piles who has already climbed several "unclimbed" peaks. Just the first person to ever do it, no big deal. I'm also friends with some guy named "Carlos" who receives absolutely no descriptive attention whatsoever. Just throw out a character's name and move on, that's what every good author does. We're a good "climbing team" anyways, which seems sort of odd for a occupation centered solely around the individual and his or her self-destructive "White Whale" quests to defeat objects that aren't even aware of our existence, but I guess someone has to set the ropes or whatever. 

I should also mention we get a map of Central Asia and a "comparative height" illustration of some of the mountains there, I guess in an effort to shoehorn some educational value into this. That's undermined somewhat by a "is such a thing even possible" speech about the Yeti, an intelligent half-man, half-animal that is totally immune to being photographed or accurately described that apparently lives in a part of Nepal where snow blindness and weather-induced madness is a common thing. Suffice it to say, I decide this thing must be real, just like rasslin', and promptly make plans to head for Kathmandu. Now I've got that song in my head. Great.

Funding is provided by the "International Foundation for Research into Strange Phenomena" an organization that will later be destroyed by easily available camera phones but for now represents an even bigger waste of time and money than the United Nations (still better than the Council on Foreign Relations, though). With the money secured it's off to challenge Mount Everest! But first, permits and advice from some guy! Rock and roll.

The real life version of a James Bond villain.

Meanwhile Carlos, remember him that guy with no memorable traits whatsoever, has apparently vanished from "base camp" at Everest, forcing me to make the difficult decision between filling out necessary red-tape paperwork and saving my climbing homeboy from himself. Let's get going on those forms, I'm sure he's fine.

I meet with this guy named Runal who is quick to warn me off my nearly suicidal exploration of the most inhospitable parts of our planet by pointing out it might be "dangerous." What, really? Apparently some hunters with "traps and guns" went after the Yeti and angered them, insofar as a myth can experience such emotions. I'm quick to assure the bureaucrat that my Snowman intentions are entirely above board, but it's pointed out that the feral missing link that lurks in blizzards might not appreciate this distinction.

Instead a safer alternative is proposed: go look for tigers in a jungle. I just report this shit, I don't make it up.

The tired and overweight American middle-aged man of the mountains.

Since this book is supposed to be about Squatchin' in the Himalayas and not about going down a big cat's throat in bleeding chunks I'm not about to be dissuaded. I'm issued the official papers, but now that clerk wants to come along too, because his skills at light filing and preparing S.P.S. reports are sure to come in useful when faced with evolutionary oddities at World Top. How about no.

After the refusal the guy gets as icy as the mountains, shaking my hand without a hint of a smile. I consider an apology and perhaps letting him come anyway. Leave it to R.A. Montgomery to turn a story about mountain adventure into what happens when you're trapped in some government office and maybe you hurt an ineffectual pencil pusher's feelings. Yes, this is great. No buddy, you're not coming. Stop giving me more chances, the answer is final.

Of course I'm punished for this steadfast refusal by nature which deploys torrential rain and mudslides. "Nature has gone wild" I note (It's taking off it's bikini top! Woo!!!!) and the expedition is cancelled forever. Because it rained and, I guess, those official documents I fought so hard to acquire expire after ten days.

Am I being detained? Am I free to go?

The promise of wild adventure, oxygen tanks and furry semi-humans begins and ends in some office. I would imagine other, better, choices actually get you to the mountain and probably into wussy vehicles, but none of that for me. Oh well, at least I'm done with this one and will never need to think about it again. 

Yeti erotica. USA! USA! USA!

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 #29: Trouble on Planet Earth

After becoming an undead horror but failing to parley that into factory ownership or whip kink I'm back for another R.A. Montgomery masterwork. This one promises some undefined trouble on our little blue dot. I guess it could have been more vague, like "Some Difficulty or Unpleasantness Somewhere in the Universe" but close enough. We're going to get conflict and we've got this amazing Third Planet backdrop for it. What more could you want? Stir in some gray ponytail "We got bombs but can't FEED people, man!" philosophizing, wussy vehicles and dwarf bashing and the result has a chance to be pleasingly tepid.

UPS shorts and high socks...in danger!!!

I'm maxing and relaxing in front of the moron box, enjoying all the societal collapse dispatches. It turns out all the world's oil has abruptly vanished. Time for the doomsday clock to strike midnight, in other words, but I'm cynically detached from this bizarre disaster. I tell my brother "Ned" that this means the "Earth has given up!" All because we had to have non-sissy means of travel, presumably. Also, our planet is still rotating and going around the sun, dude. It's not over.  

I'm told Ned is well known for his wild ideas. Considering I just assigned human characteristics to a giant ball of dirt and magma I'm hardly one to talk. He's also a problem solver with some of that "ESP" that we used to all believe in until it was ruined by 900 number hucksters. Right now he's going into his psychic aura or whatever and the upshot is he wants us to go to Saudi Arabia, which I guess is on the table is a viable option for some reason. I want to go to the CIA. The Middle East or trying to get help from the government. These are not good choices.

Perhaps realizing this R.A.M. tells me to flip a coin instead. Lucky Maryland quarter comes up Maryland.

Another reason to mourn the death of "ESP" as a meaningful shared myth.

Well, it's off to Saudi Arabia. I'm told I have "plenty of cash" from earlier, unspecified adventures and plane travel into a world terrorism hot spot was still easy when this was written so before the next page can even finish Ned and I are in Riyadh, a city described as "crowded" and "hot." I'll cut Montgomery a break, it wasn't easy to research things before the internet and those extremely general facts are probably true. 

The goodwill is immediately ruined by typically R.A. manlet bashing, this time a "small man" inviting us into one of those unlicensed cabs that you've probably heard a lot of good things about. Even if you weren't aware of the author's short = evil prejudice this whole situation screams trap. We'll just shoe ride it, thanks. 

Maybe one day a real rain will come and wash away all the pirate taxis.

I guess I'm feeling homesick because I decide to go get an English language newspaper. Naturally, while I'm doing this Ned gets taken and my particular set of skills acquired over an extremely short life will have to be deployed. Skills like distrusting the short, wandering off for no adequately explored reason in a foreign land and making darkly humorous remarks when the television news announces the coming global crash into Mad Max chaos. Yeah, those.

I wander around yelling Ned's name and blaming him for his abduction and likely torture porn victimization. I can be a jerk. Out of nowhere an old man taps my shoulder, name-drops Allah and assures me that my brother is actually safe. Nice to see all that paragraph-long drama resolved so neatly.

I ask him how he knows my brother and get a weird, evasive answer that's apparently good enough. It's off to his cool shop, chuck full of mandalas, geometric paintings used by Sufi mystics to induce their trances. I know I rag on Montgomery a lot, but he does seem to have a very sincere appreciation for other cultures. Of  course being a dirty drug-addled hippie "Global Citizen" I suppose that would be expected. Ned's peeping the art and I decide to join him. 

Perfect for the side of your love van or motor glider.

Time for some mind expansion, as all this starts to get very significant. Ned produces a bronze box that he claims was under some prayer rugs and offers some of the salve inside. Come on, you're not afraid to get high, are you? My brother rubs some on his hand and walks right into one of the pictures. Far out. 

I'm not some wimp who follows rules or worries about permanent hallucinogenic compounds in my spine, so I follow after, entering a world of shapes and colors. Yes, this children's book contains LSD imagery. Ned tells me he's solved the problem of the world's oil. Man, tripping fixes everything. He promptly vanishes. Whoa. A moment later we're back in the store.

Ned declares victory, while I innocently compare my acid test to a "trip to Disneyland" and wonder what he could possibly have done to set things right. Then everything completely falls apart, I mean even more so, as we take a taxi (licensed and driven by someone of average height or taller, I would assume) into the desert, set down one of the pictures from the store, perform a chant, and out comes the oil. "It's a time pipeline!" is the non-explanation. What. The. Fudge. 

Solving problems like "sanity" and "not eating your own fingers."

I really don't know what else to say. I get that the author is probably no stranger to "mystical trances" but I don't think that really makes it all right to put this nonsense in a book intended for a pre-teen audience. Even setting that aside, this one was a bizarre mess. Say no to drugs, friends. And unlicensed cabs, of course.

  Oh no, drugs destroyed my artistic ability. Look at this garbage, seriously.

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 #11: Mystery of the Maya

After yet another lukewarm space adventure, complete with a heavy-handed "violence is always wrong, pacifism would somehow have defeated Hitler" moral, I'm glad to be back near the start of the series and safely on Planet Earth, all its flaws and too-heavy gravity notwithstanding. This time the aliens will come to us, building a lost civilization and then for some reason kicking the plug out of the wall.

Sadly, we've long passed the point of "Peak Maya" so this does put a bit of a damper on the proceedings. A few years ago they were definitely the "in" ancient civilization, easily displacing the massive Assyria fad that had dominated the nineties. Then it was discovered that the apocalyptic predictions of their amazing ancient calendar weren't any more reliable than some modern day American crank. Ever since that disappointing day when the world failed to end they've fallen back into that second tier of lost civilizations.

Another classic "montage of crazy stuff" cover.

I'm a writer assigned by my New York editor to go find out what happened to the Mayan civilization. It makes sense. When you need the solution to a practical problem and everyone who is actually qualified has failed, you send in an author, preferably a fiction one. This is why that guy who wrote that series of books where Marky-Mark is a secret agent with amnesia or whatever became our national military adviser after Nine Eleven.

Mayan history is laid out in efficient prose, covering their rise and fall in about three paragraphs. We're here for the choices not a dull lecture, after all. I arrive in the Yucatan and am greeted by Manuel, who I immediately and quite arbitrarily decide must be a descendent of the fallen empire I'm searching for. I mean, sure, why not? Add in a few flowery descriptions, assign both credit and blame to space men and I should have the next sure-fire best seller.

Is such a thing even possible? 

I get an offer to see some professor-type, but hard won experience has taught that this is a bad idea. Instead I want to go right to the "ruins" where I'll use my author superpowers to notice hidden details that were missed by thousands of trained archeologists. I get a choice between Chichen Itza and Uxmal and decide to go with Uxmal in much the same way I'd skip the Pyramids and Sphinx in Egypt and instead try to find some of the charred remains of the Library of Alexandria out in the desert somewhere. You've got to off-road to get the big scoops, obviously.

Despite picking the less trendy spot, there's "crowds of people" and I "wish I was alone." Yeah, tell me about it. I decide to check out something called the "Temple of Magicians," but get blocked by the crowd of gawking ugly Americans, camera-permanently-strapped-to-head Japanese and whatever negative stereotype that I'm not familiar with is applied to European tourists. While being frustrated by this crush of Temple aficionados an old man offers to take my to a "very deep water hole." You don't say no to that kind of offer.

   The new cover, completed with "rapper pose." Let me drop some lost civilization on you, sucker!

I follow the old man into the jungle, but instead of a totally righteous cistern I'm surrounded by armed criminals, having fallen for the old "Have a harmless senior citizen promise a well of some sort" ploy that every travel guide warns you about. They take my money and then strap me to a donkey. I'm going to be held for ransom. I wonder if my friends and family will be able to raise the needed funds and the story ends right there. Yet another forgotten victim of trusting the elderly and being way too into the idea of extracting water from the earth.

The ending was abrupt and I didn't really get to do anything, but overall this one seemed to hold a lot of promise. The writing is actually pretty solid, there's a nice exotic setting and a goal to aim for. By R.A. Montgomery standards this is in the top 10%, easily. Too bad I promptly blundered into a rejected torture pornography script. 

The normal aging process gets you. The End.

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 #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.

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 #2: Journey Under the Sea

After killing a witch for the final time and lifting the death curse I decided I'd stay with more of that single-digit goodness, this time with a 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea knockoff. Amazing adventure, just add water. I usually don't talk about the copy I'm using, but I'd like to mention that I got stuck with the lame 2005 reprint that looked like it had been used as the only ball in a week long rugby tournament. In other words, it's not the good, old version, it just looks like it. Wonderful, haven't even cracked the cover (not like it needs it!) and I'm already prejudiced against this book. Plus, it's R.A. Montgomery, so I'm sure we'll be getting all his weird little trademarks, like anti-nepotism and an obsession with gliders.

Living under the sea: the solution to all of life's problems.

I'm an expert "deep sea explorer" who one day just decides to go take my wussy one-man submarine and find Atlantis. I mean, how hard can it be to locate something that probably doesn't exist? Yup, gonna go find a metaphor Plato used to make a point. No problem. Sadly, we don't get page after page of wet-brain ancient astronauts theorizing, instead it's just "yeah, I'm looking for Atlantis, so what?" I'm a man of action, clearly. Certainly not a man of thinking or doing research. 

If we make history "cool" and fill it with lies people will care about it again!

My personal sub Seeker, the obvious glider analogue in this book, is deployed from a research vessel. This is probably not even in the top one hundred ridiculous uses of tax payer money, but it's still pretty bad. I'm lowered via a cable into the darkest depths of the ocean. Then I'm told I've got this special anti-pressure diving suit that will allow me to leave the relative safety of the goofy dive-boat. As dumb as this is it's still better than "The Abyss."

I'm reminded this is the cash-in reissue, now with significantly worse illustrations, by the unbelievably stilted attempts to modernize the story by references to a "PDA" and the "latest microprocessors." Ugh. I leave the Seeker, maintaining radio contact with the research ship.Thankfully this revision is from 2005 or there would probably be mentions of taking pictures for Facebook and tweeting under hashtag AtlantisIsRealYOLO.

Technology and genital humor: combining them is not as easy as you might think.

I decide to cut loose from the line and head toward the ocean floor. Incredibly this suicidal plan is approved by the paper-pushers up above, suggesting they either don't fully understand the risks or just don't like me. So I'm descending into what Montgomery describes as a "canyon" but is presumably an undersea trench. We get exciting encounters with "bubbles" and a possible "grotto." Man, I can see why this whole "under the sea" genre got to be so popular. All the excitement of being wet, combined with slow movement and bad lighting. Yeah that's the good stuff. 

I decide to investigate a "round entrance." Really. Long, hard, tube-shaped object entering a wet hole. Paging Doctor Freud.

Imagine this, but in book format.

Anyway, through the entrance. I see what looks to my eyes like a dock, but probably represents the early stages of that kind of madness you get from a combination of crushing pressure, isolation, oxygen depletion and innuendo overdose. The searchlight attached to my sub isn't doing a very good job, so I get the choice to turn on the "laser." 

I hit the laser light and immediately get hit back with refined nonsense. There's a submarine that I immediately, somehow, recognize as one that got lost in the Bermuda Triangle a year ago! Did I mention the Bermuda Triangle is 2000 miles away! Whoa! Honestly, this is what should have been rewritten, instead of adding dated 2005 references to clash with the 1978 Sea Hunt nonsense.

And the main hatch is free of algae! What is going on!

I'm practically begging for the next entry to have a "The End" at the bottom of it.

The logical explanation behind the Bermuda Triangle.

I decide not to mess with the submarine. Instead, I keep going, finding the surface littered with strangely undamaged shipping. I speculate that Atlantis is capturing ships in the Bermuda Triangle and then taking them here. It certainly passes the Occam's razor test. I decide to get a closer look and am promptly murdered by sea snakes. There's even a loving description of toxins hitting the old "cerebral cortex." I'm told my life was "short and sweet." Yup, at least I'm gonna leave a beautiful corpse.

This is what my special diving suit probably looked like.

 

Yeah, I didn't get into this one. Putting the nautical equivalent of the bigfoot legend front and center didn't do this one any favors and the writing was surprising flat, considering we're in this underwater wonder world. Maybe I'll try it again when I get the proper original version. 

I regret nothing.

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

Choose Your Own Adventure #17: The Race Forever

Last time out I defeated a lame introduction, caused all kinds of mischief as a monster hero, ate corpses and massacred Lord of the Rings second-stringers but then got killed by a bicep bro who probably curls in the squat rack and invites people to the "gun show" without a trace of irony or self-awareness. Overall, a pretty good run, but it's back into the shallow end of the pool for another Choose Your Own Adventure entry. Today it's going to be all about racing, cool cars, and exotic locations. It's called the Race Forever and I'm all set to go off like I've been personally insulted when it does end, just like with "NeverEnding Story."

We get the usual introductory plot dump. In this case the "you" of the story has extensive racing experience and is traveling to Nairobi to enter an ill-conceived combination rally race/speed race. I'm guessing it will start in Kenya, detour through the Witchcraft belt, pass through a few semi-autonomous regions currently locked in unwinnable civil wars and then finish up in South Sudan. "Hey, we had a choice between Monaco, Daytona, Tokyo or Suba. We made our choice and we stand by it."

  The race course will basically go from one side of the red "no go" zone to the other.

Rather suspect choice of location aside, there's every reason for optimism. Like I said, I'm an experienced driver in both rally and, well, not rally, racing. In fairness nepotism also has played a role, as my father is a motor sports veteran who can name-drop "Le Mans" and "Nurburgring." Time to add " N'Djamena" and "Bamako" to that list, I guess. I should also point out this is the second instance of a "fortunate son" getting odd semi-preferential treatment from this author. I'm not sure if that's a motif he always works in or not, but it is fun to imagine that R.A. Montgomery is the "nepotism crudely wielded" Choose Your Own Adventure author, while most of the others prefer the "horrible fate suffered by a child" signature.

I decide to sign up for the "rough road" race first. While waiting in line, yes the turnout for this "bad idea written all over it" event is that significant, I notice a sign warning drivers to watch out for "animals, bad roads, snakes and fatigue." A more honest version might include warnings about "child soldiers, absence of any centralized authority, human trafficking and land mines" but I'm sure a reptile or being tired is more of a danger than some rebel with a RPG looking to bag their first American.

"Don't worry about it, I'm fine."

I get a choice between a "British Land Rover" and a "Japanese Nissan Pickup" and decide to go with the Nissan. I'm teamed up with an African (yeah, that's how specific the book is) navigator named Amos. He shares a story about Nigerian novelists, but I'm all "let's start jumping puddles in this Nipponese bad-boy." I decide to take the faster route through "hill country." We make good time and quickly reach the first check point and the mandatory one hour rest break. Some older guy is all "hey kid, have a beer!" but for whatever reason I'm not given a choice to drink and drive in an endurance race in arguably the world's most dangerous area. 

Instead he starts menacing me with "broken knee-caps" and I'm offered 5000 British Pounds to throw the race. But, but, the integrity of this great sport is surely worth more than that? Well, it isn't, but if I'm not taking drinks with this guy I'm not taking a dive for him either. Also, this is pretty dumb. Since the race is timed instead of head-to-head he has no way of knowing if I'm even a serious challenger. Plus, there's lots of other drivers. Is he going to make similar offers to all of them, hoping none of them blab this to race officials? I may have found a logical problem in a thirty-year-old book aimed at children. Please try to remain calm.

They totally ripped this off for "Fast and Furious."

Since I'm being all "my personal integrity is worth more than the price of 5000 medium quality tacos" I also snitch this guy out to race officials, which was pretty much guaranteed to happen anyway. This is a fantasy world, so the guilty are promptly punished by a super-efficient and honest administration, Amos turns out to have a "sixth sense" for navigating and we go on to win the race. Aw, yeah. Now for the Speed Race.  

But it's so rewarding!

Time for some fast driving! We get some pointless German-bashing (they're serious!) and I decide to go with a Subura WRX, which I'm assuming does not stand for Wreckz 'N' Effectz. All I want to do is the zoom, zoom, but first I'm paired up with a Russian! And it's a woman! Sadly, she's pretty taciturn, so there's no tales of her crazy Volgograd childhood. I decide to push the car "flat out" using the logic that this is a "race" and that is generally what one does in a race. 

Sadly, sexy Olga is firmly from the Soviet school of careful planning and somehow causes an explosion while refueling the car, getting burned on the hands and arms in the process. I'm given the choice to go back to a "village" to seek medical treatment (it's a village, what facilities would you reasonably expect them to have???) or keep racing and I chose the latter because Olga would want that and let's be honest, the other alternative is just dumb.

Ze kar is, how you say, burnink."

My heartless pragmatism is rewarded with the injured Russian failing at her navigator duties and we end up hopelessly lost. We keep ending up at the same watering hole, vultures are circling, general bad vibes. We don't finish the race either, although the ending does imply that we eventually limp back, completely defeated. Well, one for two isn't bad. I'm better at tattling than showing basic human compassion, that's for sure. 

This one was decent. I liked the "two races in one!" gimmick and the setting is interesting, although in my play through we might as well have been in rural Illinois instead of Africa. Just be sure to snitch at every opportunity and maybe watch the open flames around gasoline. 

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