Twistaplot #3 The Formula for Trouble

It turns out I haven't posted one of these since January, but on the other hand you can't rush quality and you also apparently can't rush whatever this is, either. In any case, it's time to return for more Twist-a-Plot, keeping alive the slim hopes that I can review every book in this particular series. At least today's entry looks somewhat promising, judging, as you always should, by the cover featuring President Dog and a few members of the "Dark Universe," the new corporate buzzword for fifties monster movie villains that have become walking cliches stripped of any interest. All of this is pouring out of a beaker, I'm freaking out, man.

Who is a good politician? You are, boy! Yes, you are!

This initial moderate good will is quickly drained away by the bizarre set-up, including a friendship with an elementary school teacher whose house I hang out at. This would probably raise more than a few eyebrows today, but it was a more innocent time, I guess. Anyway, I'm told to rush over. "You're not going to believe your own eyes!" Fortunately, when I arrive he's missing and we don't get a Very Special Episode of Twist-a-Plot. But first I must decide if I want to be accompanied by a dog or a friend and I decide I've got Rover backing me up.

The dog's name is actually "Titanic." Yeah. Sometimes too clever is stupid, sorry. The authors (Yes, it took two people to create this book-shaped door-jam) were apparently pretty proud of what seems like an in-joke the reader isn't privy too, the best kind of literary in-joke, as this name is repeated several times while we search for "Mr. Watson." Did he discover the double helix in this basement? The answer is "no." Instead, he's created a "Super Strength" potion that will be sure to leave baseball announcers in complete denial for years. Must be special lighter baseballs or something.

Of course it's just sitting their, waiting to be abused. I'm given a choice not to drink, but let's keep it real. It's time to destroy the MLB record book and make millions.

The substance that was not illegal when I experimented with it, honest, tastes like lemonade and provokes immediate panic from my canine buddy. Easy boy, I'm the same person, just all jacked up. Or perhaps not, because I'm also in agonizing pain that the author compares to being "hit with a fastball." Well, if I'm going to hit all those dingers that will happen sometimes. 

As you probably already guessed, the strength potion turned me into the wolf-man. So I guess it's going to be basketball, not baseball. I start the mournful howling, drawing some attention from outside. Time to "look for an electric razor." Ah, that awful snark this series is known for, how I missed it.

There is no razor. An entire page, full of painful wackiness (dead battery humor, my sides are destroyed), is devoted to conveying this information. Gah.

  Yo, I heard you like cinematic universes, dawg. How 'bout this drivel?

The authors then explain that I'm a werewolf, because it was pretty ambiguous up until now. I burst through the door and there's my school principal (I heard there was an inappropriate relationship going on here, etc) and a police woman. They see my bike and naturally assume I'm the horrific monster that shares continuity and cannon with The Mummy and Gill Man, as any reasonable person would do in this situation. The co-authors describe this as graduating Summa Cum Furry. Yes, it took more than one person to come up with that.

I'm given a choice to be good or bad and decide to go with the grain and play for Team Evil. I assumed this would allow me to brutally murder the elementary school boss and the representative of the law (no silver bullets in that gun, good luck) but instead get a page full of b.s. about the animal nature within and our good intentions and how I should go hide at home instead of feasting on the freshly killed corpses of people who were trying to help me.

This book sucks.

To add insult to injury, my family doesn't even notice the change, at least in any meaningful way, so I turn myself in to the National Guard who were summoned for some reason that I'm sure made sense in the haze of narcotics and "Hey, that's really funny!" this slop was written in. Before they can shoot me like a Freedom School hippie in "The Trial of Billy Jack" the formula suddenly wears off, the status quo is restored like this is some horrible sitcom and that's the amazing story of the temporary lycanthropy caused by a potion that was supposed to make me strong.

No one wants to fight in a John McCain endorsed foreign debacle, what gives?

I can't really say too many positive things about this one. The authors (I still can't get over that. It's a Twist-a-Plot book, not the Manhattan Project.) put in some effort to make this one stand out, but the end result was disappointing, to say the least. If everything becomes a joke, why should I care? Also, Titanic the dog? Why? I guess I can live without knowing.

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 #135: Playoff Champion

Playoffs??? You want to talk about playoffs? Playoffs!?!? Well, yes.

With warmer snow signaling the beginning of spring it won't be long until the heroes of summer return to take to the baseball diamond for a thrill ride that's only considered less dull than soccer because it has cultural traction on its side. Our steroid-fueled heroes will be hitting big time dingers, getting three-baggers, playing out of a scuffle and other feats of heroism veiled behind bizarre jargon, crotch-grabbing, endless spiting and the occasional beach ball on the field.

Yeah, let's face it, baseball is kinda boring. All the efforts to introduce "extreme" elements and seizure-inducing spectacle labor in vain against the simple truth. Honestly, we're reaching the point where the restroom urinals are more interesting than the actual game. Still, it's a tradition, you can drink and over-eat without worrying about too much excitement affecting the digestion/inebriation process and every so often the game rises above its considerable limitations to produce memorable moments.

 Alternate Title: "The Worst Human Being to Ever Live."

In that spirit it's time to return to always dependable triple-digit Choose Your Own Adventure books. At this point in the series quality control had pretty much vanished, resulting in drivel like "The Terrorist Trap" (!!!) and "Surf Monkeys" (!). Yes, those are real. Today's story, thankfully, takes a more down-to-earth approach by presenting baseball managerial tactics as the core plot mechanic. That's a relief, considering last time I died naked, alone and terrified in quicksand while trying to flee a MILF-led kidnapping ring. The worst thing that will happen this time, I'm assuming, is losing the game, disgracing your family, never knowing true love and becoming a hopeless human wreck desperately trying to recapture that fleeting moment of glory that was never fully realized.

Batter Up!

 

We start with a huge information dump that goes on for several pages. The "you" in this story is a catcher, a big time hitter and the most respected player on the "Wynona Cougars." We've reached some ill-defined "school" (college?) playoffs that was alluded to in the title and are preparing for the semi-final showdown against "Passyunk." I guess "Moo Mud" got eliminated in group play. However, disaster strikes as the beloved coach suffers a lovingly illustrated heart attack and is hurt or dead or something. 

In unrelated trivia, a lifetime of steroid abuse has been linked to heart problems.

With Coach loaded into the old meat wagon we're forced to go on without him, appointing a player-manager in his stead. I, of course, get the nod. Something tells me that losing this game would psychologically destroy my c.y.o.a. alter ego, so let's hope for the best.

 Must...coach...amateur...baseball...

My first decision is classic baseball "what would you do?" the kind of thing that would be the first chapter of a "How to Manage a Baseball Team" book if something that depressing actually exists. The opposing pitcher, a total monster on the mound, is a right-hander. Most of my better hitters bat from the orthodox side of the plate. This is, we are told, a considerable disadvantage. Should we put in some southpaws, even though they live shorter lives and are more likely to suffer insanity? 

I decide to stick with the original line-up. Yet another example of the massive, institutional discrimination against lefties. Yes, I am left-handed myself, but I don't see what that has to do with this outrage.

Lefties: The Hand of Fate.

After that bit of ugly handism a completely awful game, even by baseball standards, ensues. It stays 0-0 for "inning after inning" as both pitchers dominate soft bats. The opposing pitcher racks up 16 strike outs and I'm beginning to wonder if my self-hating lefty antics are going to be our undoing. Then, Ghost in the Machine! The Coach, "unable to speak," arrives in a wheelchair to offer moral support! Our team promptly goes crazy and hits the winning run in the ninth inning! 

Now all that remains is a little piece of business called Scarboro and their ace pitcher Doorknob Clinton (!!!). 

Do a search for "Doorknob Clinton" and this is what you get.

Doorknob proves to be as formidable as you might expect, striking out the first two hitters with the old trouble ball. Now it's my turn. He's feeding me his "sinker" but I decide to be "ready for anything!" Now there's some stra-teg-ery. Ten moves ahead, ready for any trick.

I strike out.

This game is another no-score snooze-fest. Man, no wonder everyone is inhaling cheap beer at these. When I actually get bat on ball in the 4th it feels like it's "made of lead." If only there was some sort of illegal way to make my hitting stronger, but alas, there isn't. Unfortunately Scarboro mounts a rally, with Good Dog McGee (!) bunting runners to second and third with only one out. Next up? Bad Dog McGee, obviously. I'm guessing he's a decent guy with a mostly unearned bad reputation, while "Good Dog" gets away with murder but no one ever suspects him because, hey, he's a good dog.

He had won the battle against himself. He loved Big Master.

We get the classic "small ball" scenario where I walk the Dog (ugh, so sorry for that) to set up the inning-ending double play. It works! With the potential excitement expertly averted, it's back to more thrilling one-two-three innings. We begin to speculate that Clinton might be a "machine." I don't think I have to tell you what the fuel probably is.

Ninth inning. With the opposing pitcher batting I'm given the option to call for "fast balls" but the concern is our pitcher is exhausted. Apparently this game is taking place in 1910: no offense, endless small ball, complete games instead of several relief pitchers, etc. All we need is some casual racism and that theory will be confirmed. 

I call for some finesse pitching, but my guy is so exhausted he completely screws that up and the result is a 1-0 lead. Then the reliever finally comes in. Cracker jack timing, as always.

May contain the "eff" word, according to a helpful sticker.

Then we lose. The ending explains how the opposing pitcher went on to a long and successful major league career, complete with World Series heroics. Meanwhile I fade into well-deserved obscurity, but at least my first name isn't "Doorknob" so there's always that.

Overall this was a good one, calling back happy memories of that golden age of baseball before players figured out they could inject clean urine directly into their bladders to defeat drug testing. The more realistic story was actually rather refreshing after all the sensational b.s. these books usually serve up and the strategic decisions made sense. Maybe not a classic, but still probably better than "Surf Monkeys." Probably.

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

Twistaplot #10 Mission of the Secret Spy Squad

Last time we explored a rich and highly nuanced world of fantasy in Deathtrap Dungeon by entering a deadly dungeon and...well...dying. You can't accuse them of false advertising, that's for sure. Following that debacle (I think it's impossible to die faster than I did) it's time to put away the dice and go back into the kiddie pool for another Choose Your Own Adventure idea thief. This time it's "Twistaplot" which, believe it or not, was put out by Scholastic and prominently featured Goosebumps author R.L. Stine (not in today's book, though). With that impressive pedigree you'd think this series would be a little less on the fudged up side, but you'd be mostly wrong as the stories would often veer into murder, mayhem and, in today's tale, cold war espionage. Yeah, really.

Overall, I have a soft spot for this series. It was generally well-written and as original as a rip-off could be. There's also a lot of fourth-wall breaking snark, perhaps anticipating a future where they would basically be fodder for that in a blog. Let's check it out.

"Ok, USA!"

I love the title. It's a secret spy squad, as opposed to all those spies that operate openly with full disclosure. The redundancy, repetition and saying the same thing over and over is very much appreciated and enjoyed. We get a funny bit right away as the instructions page threatens to self-destruct in thirty seconds. Like I said, these books were a little more self-aware than was typical of the genre. Apparently I'm on the Junior Track and Field Team, something that conjures up images of homoerotic stretching, underage drinking purges and buying a bottle of aspirin for $100 after being told it's "steroid pills." International espionage never really came up.

By taking all of these pills I shaved two seconds off my mile time and my genitals fell off.

Anyway, we're supposed to compete in some sort of b.s. "peace games" in Europe, but instead are in a cave being briefed for the cloak 'n' dagger by a Bogart look-a-like. He also has a metal hook for a hand, the code name "Raven" and regards the C.I.A. as a "boy scout troop." This all comes off as pretty try hard, quite frankly. The fictional country of Solonia (between Belgium and Luxemburg!) is menaced by a group called BRUTE (not the aftershave, I think) who are planning on assassinating King Idle (!) which, somehow, could cause World War 3. I mean, what could be a bigger threat to the Western Democracies than the death of a paternal autocrat in a nation roughly the size of a Burger King parking lot.

You stay dry, a figurehead monarch gets wet.

Since this is still America, what to do next is put to a democratic vote and it all comes down to my decision. The book lets you "chicken out" but immediately calls you out on that decision in another nice touch. Instead, I decide we should go to Solonia and save their beloved tyranny from the long arms of double entendre using deodorant makers.

Next stop, the Blandsburg airport, presumably not far from Squaresville. Not surprisingly for a nation known as "Little Luxemburg" everything is small. The local press is waiting, eager to do an interview, but he faces stone-walling from my coach. We learn that "marathon sleeping" is the national pastime of Solonia, the flag is "gray on gray" and the anthem has two notes. Again, the fate of the free world rests with this feudal left-over.

A possible replacement for the "Two Shades of Gray" flag.

He keeps playing the sympathy card to try to score that scotching expose, but with the stakes as high as they are I turn him down. He makes a cryptic remark and offers a gray button that says "Solonia Is For Surprises!" Legitimate, intentional humor in one of these books? Yes. After refusing the button the reporter produces more erratic behavior, blaming "an old ping pong injury." It is something of a blood-sport.

"Finish Him!"

We get a shockingly prescient bit where airport security starts tearing into my possessions. They even suggest a "body search." This book is legitimately humorous and it predicts TSA grope sessions. 10 out of 10, friends. Suddenly, I'm alone, as the rest of the team probably bugged out rather than witness me having to drop and spread. I'm given a choice to run (to where???) but decided to let them finish the search. 

I'm hustled into a "little green room." "You're shaking so badly you get your zipper stuck halfway down," the book states. Fortunately this a reference to the zipper on your jacket, but still. They find something incriminating, and the next thing I know I'm being frog-marched toward what's basically the Ministry of Love. Time to put on that "rat helmet."

I'll take the radiation, please.

Back in the mini-love I'm accused of spying and seated in front of a "ping pong sized table." Man, what is it with the co-authors and ping pong? Still more shake-down happens (gah, enough already!) and this time the "Solonia" button turns up in my bag. Not sure how they missed it earlier. From here it's off to a "detention cell." I'm really enjoying all this high adventure: cavity searches, holding cells, stuck zippers...it's a dreamworld of magic.

"Me lawyer you" offers a full-figured gentleman and luckily this isn't code for making me a jailhouse bride. A long conversation is summarized in another funny bit, with the choices coming down to admitting guilt and hoping for the best or rotting in the cell. Seeing as how the evidence is all against me and one would imagine the American government would notice my plight at some point I take the plea bargain, such as it is. I rot in the prison for a week, lose ten pounds and am exchanged for a crew of fish mongers and a second round draft pick. The end.

Let's drag your excess fat into a blind spot and shank it.

It was a pretty disappointing run, all things considered. I didn't do any spy stuff and what did happen is pretty much business as usual in today's airports, though I guess the idea of getting repeatedly violated by government goons still had some novelty in the early eighties. Next time I'll have to try to get to the page where "your undercover contact is a bionic pig!" We can create better bacon, we have the technology.

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