Which Way Super Powers: The Doomsday Prophecy

I am darkness. I am the night. I am the gosh darn Batman! Well, not really, but through the miracle of a 1986 Which Way book the illusion is nearly seamless. Yes, in addition to creating lazy third-rate Choose Your Own Adventure knock-offs, the Which Way series also obtained a license to use DC Comics characters like that Super guy and the flying rodent ninja. I really can't overstate what a big deal this poorly written and generally work-shy series was in its day: Simon & Schuster as a publisher, major crossover marketing, huge sales, it was all there. This is why any sensible individual would set their time machine for the mid-eighties. In any case, The Dark Knight! I'm having trouble controlling my hype level, even with the "Which Way" logo right there, mocking me and ensuring this one will be disappointing, at best.

This is gonna be totally rad!

The first let-down happens almost immediately, with the book being written in the third person. Yes, instead of being the hero Gotham deserves I'll merely be directing his actions at critical points. I really can't stress how disappointing this is. "Kids won't actually wanna be The Bat," I imagine a bloated money man shouting at the author. "So write this in a different style than all the other Which Way books. Now, it's time for me to go swim in money." This is almost certainly what happened.

Anyways, Bat Man (not me, him, gah) is driving toward the Bat Symbol when it's replaced with a "DEATH'S HEAD." Yes, that's the original capitalization. It must be some kind of set-up, possibly leading to DOOM!!! This is probably the worst first page in any of these books, combining being forced into the role of a largely passive observer with the shouting text and awful plot hook. Stick to bad television reception as a motivator, Which Way.

Meanwhile, the illustration of the Batmobile suggests the goofy television show and not the dark brooding hero of the movies. This is going to hurt. A lot.

I instruct the former League of Shadows disciple to radio Commissioner Gordon to see what the trouble is. He tells us it's not a big deal and the signal is being fixed and sometimes you get random DEATH'S HEAD issues with giant lamps, it's really nothing. Instead, I need to go to Washington D.C. for a 4th of July celebration because nothing spells summer fun like the grim protector of a decadent and dying city shaking hands and officiating the three-legged-race. You can't really argue with this logic.

Mr. Batman goes to Washington.

Naturally, Batman is greeted by Fake News immediately upon arriving at the swamp on the Potomac. Specifically, The Riddler has promised "the end of Batman," now that he's done "hacking" the 1984 election, I guess. Time to rush over to the White House and protect The Gipper from the least intimidating villain ever.

Then there's riddles and the power goes out. If there had been a Timothy Nolan movie with the Riddler, this would have been the plot, I guarantee it. The last student of Ra's al Ghul then solves a riddle and rushes over to the U.S. Mint to stop a "heist." This is the dark, gritty and intelligent action that we were promised. Riddler and his goons are waiting and attempt to crush the nocturnal predator with a giant novelty coin. Yeah. Really.

Our secret weapon to defeat Mr. Brexit and the Catalon Crusader.

Using a grappling hook Batman is able to redirect the coin and it somehow bounces around and defeats Mr. Question Mark and his goons. It's then explained that the plan was to "destroy the economy" with a glut of worthless money, which sounds more like an evil scheme from Soros Man than Edward Nigma's fey alter-ego. All is well, though, because we saved our currency from being deliberately debased by powerful evil figures and I'm sure we'll never end up 20 trillion in debt or whatever now.

I'll use fiat currency against the caped clod!

This wasn't, you know, "good," or anything, but it was short and forgettable. Since this is the goal of every Which Way book, it has to be considered a success, at least on some level. Also, nothing that happened had anything to do with either "doomsday" or "prophecy," but I guess "The Prancing Federal Reserve Criminal" is a strictly inferior as a title choice, false advertisement notwithstanding.

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

Which Way Books #9: Creatures of the Dark

After enduring a cynical update of what passes for a classic within this genre it's time to return to Which Way Books, where the low expectations always soften the impact. Yes, no more Edward Packard, instead the literary Alan Smithee that is R.G. Austin with some of that semi-competent efficiency that I've come to expect from this series. Today's subject probably couldn't be any more derivative and back then that's just how we liked it. Create your own lukewarm "homage" to classical mythology and add some lazy wackiness here and there...that's just crazy enough to work. Yeah, this is going to be great.

So close to creating the "puke rainbow" in 1982, so very close.

As suggested by the high-quality introductory paragraph this book is the spiritual successor to Lost in a Strange Land although this connection only exists in the low-energy premise. Once again I get swept away into a land of monsters and magic. Only now, instead of pursuing the safe and sane hobby of exploring lava floes (this bag of fine dust is all that remains of your child) my highly sensible solo voyage across the Pacific is interrupted by a storm and a plunge into a "black abyss. First, this sounds very familiar, just with most of the irrelevant details mercilessly stripped away so we can do this thang as fast as possible. Second, sick prose game from author "John Smith" here. 

From the maker of good movies comes this dud.

Anyway, we all know the drill by now: I'm in a strange land that may or may not include darkness and, possibly, even some sort of creatures loosely affiliated with said absence of light. So, naturally, the first choice is between a town or a city. Is this some sort of personality test disguised as poorly written eighties kid's entertainment? Well, if you must know I suffer from the City Boy Blues, so town it is.

As I walk through the forest toward the more intimate population center I get lassoed. Not this nonsense again. There better be some Cossacks at the other end of this rope-trick shuck or I'm not going to be happy. 

It's aliens. Why yes, this does make me rage, thanks for asking.

This, but with less artistic merit.

As you probably already guessed the little green men think I'm a wizard. Despite a blanket denial of this charge they demand I "prove it." Yeah. Come on hotshot, let's see you prove a negative. Should be easy for the kind of person who gets swept off boats and blunders into looped hemp products. I try to logic my way out of this by suggesting I would use my wizard powers against them if I actually had any but this proves unconvincing to the galactic wanderers and I'm dragged off to their spaceship where I'll presumably be tortured and executed. Wasn't really expecting another inquisition, especially one involving saucer people, but then again I suppose no ever expects them.

And that's all. Even by Which Way standards this one was a disappointment. All we needed was some quicksand and maybe a sinister dwarf and just about every element I dislike from these would have been present. Incredibly, this finishes the first ten books from this series. One day soon I may finally complete the set, realize I've reviewed the entire Which Way series and then hang my head, sobbing bitter tears and sinking into crushing despair. 

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

Which Way Books #6: Sugarcane Island

After experiencing a very, very poor man's Narnia via the magic of Twist-a-Plot it's back to the other cheap knockoff series, but today's subject is something a little different. Somehow, through the magic of public domain or perhaps high-powered copyright lawyers (all that Simon & Schuster money had to be buying something and it sure wasn't quality authors) Choose Your Own Adventure founder Edward Packard shows up for his lame competition. Making this even more incredible is the fact that "Island" may have been the first interactive work of fiction ever created and here it is as a throwaway entry in a lazy "me too!" series, with Packard's name replacing the steady march of Alan Smithees (R.G. Austin???). My mind can barely handle this, I'll be honest. We'll talk more about it when we look at the revised C.Y.O.A. version, but for now let's do this.

We got the rights to this book by some Packard goof. Only 99 cents! Cheap!

Betraying the fact that this book was straight-up poached from the godfather of the genre, this one has a completely different appearance than the other Which Way titles, including different numbers, black lines as a divider before most of the choices and an extremely brief reminder to use our head because on Sugarcane Island you can get wrecked quick. Not unlike how your hard work can be stolen out from under you by another publisher, I guess.

The set-up is pretty straightforward. I'm on a boat in the Pacific on the way to see a Doctor Frisbee (no Vivaldi, not yet) on the Galapagos Islands. The merciless sea has other plans, however, and I get swept off the boat by a rogue wave, finally washing up on a beach after blacking out. Yes, the human body has an automatic "tread water" ability that kicks in when you're out cold, in case you didn't know. Anyways, tropical island paradise or horrific death await and concerns about food and rest are already pressing to the fore. I decide to climb a "rocky hill" in search of food and perhaps sports balls to befriend.

It's actually not subtle at all, bro.

Being sure to keep a watch for snakes I climb the hill and manage to find some "tasty berries." Man, this survivalist stuff is cake. Now I just need to build a bug-out shelter. Or keep climbing that "hill" which apparently more like the cliffs of Dover. To reach the top I must contend with "dangerous looking rocks" (don't like the look of those rocks...don't make eye contact...just keep walking) but decide to lie down and rest instead because sloth is the solution to all of life's difficulties.

Strangely, another Deadly Sin kicks in and I decide to keep tucking into the berries and perhaps look for more instead of maybe getting some winks. It appears the whole "hill" plot-line has been abandoned, not like I miss it or anything. Hey look, an "enormous white dog!" Better approach and domesticate this sucker as I rebuild civilization piece by piece from first principles in this new Eden. If this goes well I'll be building ziggurats and making crude clay records in a pictograph alphabet within a week or two, max.

This is clearly designed to appeal to adults over the age of 21.

Sadly, my animal training skills aren't really up to it as I end up being herded by the K-9 to a clearing where another dozen similar dogs are waiting. Assuming I can turn this around and eventually have a hound army I decide to stick around instead of running. Then the pack runs off after "unseen game" and I run off, too. Well, that was something. During my cowardly retreat I encounter a turtle and am given a chance to ride on it. I can't really think of any compelling reason not to.

Incredibly, this well-conceived Jeb Bush strategy leads toward disaster as Mr. Turtle swims into a some crocodiles and then is heading out to sea because I guess sea turtles sometimes spend long periods of time on land for whatever reason. Not wishing to get chomped on by a future pair of boots I hang on. So it's into the ocean where I get devoured by a shark, complete with a lovingly crafted illustration of this awful fate. By trying to avoid being torn apart by a toothy predator I caused it to happen anyway. Oh, the irony. So many spoons, etc.

 Make sure none of the guests lost loved ones to Mr. Jaws before holding this particular party.

Like all classic, pioneering works of high art this one is basically review-proof, but I will say it was a bit of a mess. Most of the events were just bizarre in their randomness and it didn't feel like there was any goal I was getting closer to or further from, just various compartmentalized encounters loosely tied to the island itself. You have to start somewhere, so you can't really complain too much. We'll save that for when we review the amazing "revised" edition next week.

You will entscheidest so hard you'll barely believe it. Also, watch out for snakes!

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

Which Way Books #7: Curse of the Sunken Treasure

It's been so long I have nearly no recollection of the last trip into this rich vein of "I sorta 'member dat" but apparently it involved tracking the snow beast and promptly giving up because of inclement weather. Monster hunting and baseball, it's got more in common than just the huge, disfigured creatures birthed by chemistry experiments gone horribly wrong. Be that as it may, it's time to get back in the groove with some more Which Way mediocrity.

Will I ever finish this series? It certainly looks more promising than the doomed enterprise of finishing Choose Your Own Adventure, but on the other hand the same could be said for Twist-a-Plot and I don't even want to look at the cover of one of those again, let alone endure the lazy soul-rending snark within. At least Which Way hasn't broken my will to resist, but on the other hand there's a few books in the series that aren't available for a reasonable price, so this is probably a doomed enterprise that will end in miserable failure. Now that we're suitably fired up, let's crack open today's subject.

Never steal anything wet.

Even disregarding the encounter with nothingness I just had it's hard to be too optimistic about this one. The title sounds like something one of those random generators would spit out and the cover promises more thrilling undersea adventure, that's new and exciting. This might be the most phoned-in Which Way concept yet, which is really saying something. You know, maybe we should just quit stalling and actually start.

We get our usual inspired opening, always the highlight. I'm having "disturbing" dreams and then wake up to a mysterious glow coming from the harbor. I live in a seaside town, you see. Call me Ishmael this shit isn't. I almost wonder if this was written by a human being and not a BASIC program loaded up with R.G. Austin tropes. Better check the television reception to determine how personal this is gonna get.

I get a "compelling need" to investigate the glow. Believable motivations, intriguing heroes tormented by the world beyond the wall of sleep, a harbor...we're just laying down that strong prose game in this thang. I paddle my way out toward the light because what else would someone reasonably do? Next thing you know I'm on a ship with "Captain Abel" who insists we set sail immediately without questioning why random strangers are coming on board. Man, now Biblical imagery, this is like Moby Dick but superior in every way, from the literary styling to the reduced amount of whaling minutia, to say nothing of not having such an unfortunate title.

One day I won't giggle like a schoolgirl at this, but it won't be today or tomorrow either.

Captain Ahab Abel actually does give me an opportunity to back out, since the journey is going to be dangerous and no doubt highly symbolic. It turns out his own particular obsession/metaphor for the uncaring forces of fate is a green diamond "the size of a basketball." Somehow having the grizzled sea dog talk about hoopin' it up out of no where makes this even better. From Hell's heart he shoots the orange! Yes! And it counts!

As you probably already guessed the roundball-sized rock is from the Planet Galinka, curses anyone who owns it and is currently at the bottom of the sea with exactly two million dollars American worth of pirate gold. This ship sunk when it hit a glacier, you see. The mysterious light is caused by the reflection of the diamond, somehow. Go home and sleep it off, R.G.

Before I can even process this madness another man named "Stix" is proposing a mutiny and I'm wondering what I did wrong in the last few days to deserve this agony.

Getting a random disease and dying in 1890? Must be the curse of that diamond!

I decide to stay loyal to the crazy old guy I just met, always the best policy, and Stik simply accepts it and leaves. Well, all right then. Now it's time to choose a direction to sail with absolutely no information provided. This book sucks.

Ten days pass and the light steadily grows brighter until we're directly over it. Those random direction choosing skills doe, what can you say? Diving suit on, down I go. As you probably saw coming Stik is already there, somehow, sitting on the treasure chest and holding a knife. 

Yeah.

Using gestures or whatever I form an unstable alliance with the kind of guy who via unknown means, without a ship or anything, got to the treasure first and then was just chilling down there with a blade out because just use your imagination or whatever. We raise the chest, a feat that would probably be impossible considering the weight of the gold but I've stopped caring and I just want out. We also simply leave the diamond behind because who wants to be cursed by alien wizards or the like and head off, celebrating the considerable windfall. But wait! It's a pirate ship!

This is cultural appropriation and it's not okay.

My ingenious tactic of sailing "west" is enough to outwit the sea brigands and we're heading home with big money and Mr. Stabby/Mutiny isn't even going to betray us because unpredictable changes in the few traits a character has rules. I'm even offered a chance to "explore a cave" after the ending, but decide against it.

Now I remember why I wait for months and months between these reviews.

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

Which Way Books #22: The Champ of TV Wrestling

Exploring an avarice fantasy via the always reliable Twist-a-Plot vehicle apparently left such a bad impression that several months have passed without any of my very good and necessary reviews of something that couldn't be more culturally irrelevant. Fortunately I'm coming back with a good one: Pro Rasslin'! Break down the cockpit doors, Barbara and Scott Siegel! *snort* ASSUME THE CONTROLS. Put this sucker into the nosedive of lazy sarcasm and pretentious elitism toward something intended for eighties children. And right before the crash you'll realize you're not far from PARTS UNKNOWN. And by that, of course, I mean let's get to the page flipping.

And hey, this is a high number Which Way release, so certainly the story-telling and writing quality will have evolved considerably and the creators certainly won't be farming things out to talent poor husband-wife teams. Major spoiler: wrong. 

Before I started owning factories you could find my sexy body dominating in the squared circle.

In fine Which Way tradition I'm galvanized into action and adventure by an issue with the old moron box. At least this time the reception is good, but there's another issue, arguably far worse. The world's worst human being, Carl the Colossus has acquired the ten pounds of gold through nefarious means and is now all up on my tube, calling the fans idiots and bashing the local sports team or whatever. I decide to dedicate my life to overthrowing the usurped reign of this vile rule-breaker.

Yeah, that's the story. I'm an adult who thinks the spandex ballet is real and honestly believe it's my duty as a good citizen to defeat the baddie with the belt. How, you're probably wondering, does this book think one would accomplish this ridiculous modern version of Don Quixote quest? The answer is nothing short of amazing: jogging, jumping rope, swimming and practicing my holds (i.e. putting my puny little brother in "sleepers" and "scorpion deathlocks"). Yes, friends, this is how you do it. No acting classes, no practicing doing the moves in a cooperative fashion in a wrestling school, no needle drugs, just jog a little. Don't even run fast, it's fine.

I got this physique by doing some light cardio and eating vegetables.

After this rigorous preparation for the Testosterone Soap Opera I'll probably have to start small, right? Well, no, it's right in front of 20,000 "marks" to prove my skills in a legitimate, real fight against either future business magnate and kinky lover Vampire Vic or 500 pound Awesome Al. Yes, the new guy even gets to pick his opponent. Man, this whole "TV Wrestling" thing is the easiest, best job in the world.

Not wishing to be battered with floggers and forced to scream out the safe word in the throes of ecstasy that's described with terrible prose by the blood-drinking industrialist I instead opt to take on the quarter-tonner. Honestly, this is America, is five bills really even all that unusual? I guess hyper-obesity was more of a novelty in 1986. Still, considering this guys awful physique and terrible gimmick (I've got an alliterative name!) one would think the fresh face would get the push from good old booker man.

Wrestled after "Interview" and before "Twilight," jobbed to everyone.

My "this guy will break his own ankles or have a cardiac event just from moving around while my excellent light exercise conditioning will carry me to victory" expectation proves to be overly optimistic when A.A. proves surprisingly athletic, dodging my lame amateur wrestling shot attempt. Next thing I know I'm eating a "knee drop." You'd think having that much weight collapsing on your spinal column would quickly spell the end, but I'm not even hurt and quickly bust out some UFC submission holds on this guy, things like poking my chin into the guys shoulder, creating crippling mild discomfort. Got you now, sucker!

At this point Al starts whispering instructions, which in reality would have been going on the entire "match," but in this book's universe kayfabe is alive and well. He wants me to lose on purpose, or in other words put on a professional, excuse me, TV, wrestling match. Oddly enough he insists the need for this cooperation is to catch a criminal in the arena, rather than saying "Hey dumbass, this is supposed to be fake, stop making me look bad and do the j-o-b." 

I'll do some skip rope and then defeat Hulk Hogan in a real fight.

I decide to "smarten up" and go along with the show, probably at least somewhat embarrassed that I was so gullible. Next he'll tell me the champion doesn't really care about local sports and is just calling us poorly educated sharecroppers so we'll buy tickets to see him get comeuppance. Everything was a lie, next those Santa truthers will wreck that. Of course, we all know wrestling is entirely above board, so my corpulent rival promptly "shoots" on me by flinging me into orbit. Yes. At least the book treats this as lighthearted fun and doesn't describe how I literally explode and die a horrific and meaningless high altitude death just because I noticed the two hate-filled enemies in the ring seem to be cooperating with each other to do the moves.

It's still real to me.

One would think the wacky world of "sports entertainment" would lend itself to some goofy fun, but the end result was disappointing. The clear contempt for the subject matter (TV Wrestling? You can't call it by its real name?) and the reader shines through, as if the writers thought they were too good for the topic, but hey, there's money to be made. I'd call this a lost opportunity, insofar as failing to adequately depict "to be the man, you've got to beat the man" fantasies qualify for "That could've been something incredible! If only!"

Got angry at bad guy politicans, did some jogging, jump rope and real estate business.

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

Which Way Books #4: Famous and Rich

I can't stop reading Which Way Books. Honestly, what's not to like? The stories are threadbare and utilitarian, the low expectations coming in make the moments of glorious competence shine even brighter and there's a very pleasant lack of self-awareness and fourth wall (third page???) breaking. Sure, I'll probably get back into the always reliable late-early Choose Your Own Adventure offerings very soon, but for now it's time to live the American dream of filthy lucre and all eyes on me via the highly satisfying medium of barely serviceable text from 1982 practically dancing on badly yellowed pages.

How about some unrealistic life expectations?

I have to concede that the usually brilliant Which Way opening is sadly deficient in this one. Instead of poor TeeVee reception, magic birds or horrible movies coming to life the high concept here is that some older gentleman moves into the house next door. Since it's the eighties and I don't have to check a phone every fifteen seconds or take lots of arm-length photos of myself I go over to talk, something people used to do. We have this lengthy conversation that, fortunately, is brutally summarized down to "talking 'bout dreams and stuff" and suddenly my new best friend wants to know about my future goals. "To be famous and rich!" Roll credits?

Instead there's some red diaper talk about how ambitions often come at a heavy cost and money can't buy a beautiful sunset and general "You've got to LIVE every day, man!" bullshit that we're all sick of hearing. My pragmatic response is the only way I can determine if power does, indeed, corrupt is by being handed the joystick of wealth and glory. Naturally this leads to mumbling and quivering, because this guy is some sort of wish-granting plot contrivance.

Can we get that lengthy conventional war, with mandatory draft, going soon? Please?

Because it's Which Way there's the usual triple choice of things that are very loosely related to the core conceit that's been so expertly established, specifically three occupations that allegedly deliver the chedda and that sweet envy and hatred of the faceless masses. One is movie star, which is fine, but the other two are a mess. Explorer? Maybe in the 19th century, old-timer. Detective? Sure, that's a sure route to big money and we all know the more notoriety you have the more effective you would be. Notably absent are more believable options like air-headed nepotism case who "accidentally" releases home-made pornography into the public domain or son of already wealthy parents who becomes obscenely wealthy via monetary voodoo.

Fine, I'll take explorer.

We makin' Cartier coin.

Instead of swimming in portfolios or being worshiped by life's extras I'm right in the middle of an adventure, one that involves a light aircraft. Get your lawyers on the phone, R.A. Montgomery. I'm on the cover of "Time" magazine, which seems an odd choice when there's National Pornographic, but I guess there was a time when they might have covered global exploration before they lost all relevancy and went off the Cultural Marxist deep-end. No time to dwell on that, the plane's engines are on fire. It's famous and rich, not famous and fastidious about pre-flight check-ups, after all.

I jump out, hit the water, deploy a raft and note an island about 25 miles away, all in rapid fire prose. Hey, we're not being paid by the hour, here. I'm given the choice to retrieve the floating parachute, but instead decide to paddle toward the island, nice and secure in my new wussy and impractical mode of travel. Many miles of rowing against ocean currents, no problem.

This raft is superior to other rafts in every possible way.

After much rowing I'm confronted by a "mammoth bed of seaweed" blocking the path to the island. No, not water dope! Faced with this daunting obstacle I decide to soldier on and incredibly just float right through the wet green to the beach. Just as I think I'm in the clear I hear barking and a family of sea lions is swimming toward my raft. First waterlogged crops and now ocean dogs. You're gonna have to do better than that, nature. 

As you might expect, the pets of Davey Jones are more about goofy playful cavorting than devouring the flesh of a guy that did a magazine cover when that feat still had cultural relevance. Just as I hit the shore, though, a "bull" sea lion, the pack alpha I would assume, is running up on me in a "vengeful rage." Faced with this, I'm given two different coward options instead of some righteous "last good fight" battle with the playful clowns of the sea. Also, what does this have to do with being famous or rich? I've got nothing but a raft and paddle to my name and I'm running and hiding from a Sea World warm-up act. Gah.

Not exactly the most intimidating enemy.

So I run away with the goofy nemesis hot on my heels, barking happily and slapping its flippers together in anticipation of devouring flesh and washing it down with warm blood. Then I blunder into quicksand. The world's greatest explorer, ladies and gentleman, punked out by an animal know for its goofy clapping and working wacky horns and now I'm sinking into wet earth. Fortunately, both myself and the author remember that so-called "quicksand" is just really muddy water and you can float and swim in it, so that's what I do. After getting out, a rescue party is there to bail my pathetic ass out before I get attacked by panda bears or get trapped in pussy willows or whatever other humiliating event that could top what already happened occurs. 

Plus, they know who I am because I'm famous. The End. Good grief.

 Don't you hate it when there's no bamboo or you're shot to make Chinese medicine?

This one was pretty bad. How did I become a famous explorer when I'm so completely inept? Why am I exploring an island that a "rescue party" can easily access? How come the story-line I got had nothing to do with the thin reed setting up the action. I'll give a point for correct understanding of quicksand, but that's all this one is getting. Yeah, I'm going back to Choose Your Own Adventure next time.

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

Which Way Books #5: Lost in a Strange Land

This was supposed to be the long-awaited (well, in my own imagination, anyway) read-through of Choose Your Own Adventure #13, but this R.A. Montgomery non-classic was apparently shipped in a solar powered sugar glider or the like and failed to arrive. And this was after I decided to settle for the pathetic reissue and not pony up a hundred or so dollars for a box of ashes or whatever "acceptable" condition actually means. It's just not meant to be, so might as well stay in the Which Way Books rut I've been digging with all the speed and precision of a glacial valley. R.G. Austin drivel in the hand is worth a lot more than R.A. Montgomery communism in the bush, after all.

The above b.s. is the best and only cover image online. 

As per tradition most of the actual creative and, let's be honest here, legitimate effort is expended in the opening. I'm summering in the Pacific Northwest where I've acquired the habit of exploring "lava tubes" in the ample free time this set-up provides. Yes, this was parenting in the eighties. "Go explore the volcano holes, Timmy. If you're not back for dinner we'll assume you were melted like a flesh candle or otherwise killed horribly. Have fun!" 

Not surprisingly this dangerous hobby leads to trouble, but perhaps not what you'd expect (can't breathe, so hot, it was all worth it, etc.). Instead another hollow earth plot kicks in as I fall through a crumbling floor and plunge into darkness. Reverse gravity kicks in and after hours of gentle floating (that does sound pretty righteous) I land softly in front of a sign (!) warning, in English, that I'm about to enter bizarre worlds full of all manner of fantasy cliches and general "What's up with THAT?" Forewarned by this convenient and non-suspension of disbelief damaging advice, it's time for a patented three-way...er, choice that is. 

 "Mantle" and "Outer Core" are establishment propaganda, man.

The choice is basically a three-headed coin toss, since there's no hints to distinguish Alpha, Beta and Gamma World from each other, apart from my preexisting knowledge that being the Alpha is b.s. I'll let the lucky Maryland quarter split the difference, Maryland it is, so off to Gamma. I walk through mist for awhile and arrive at a golden gate. Yes, it's time to gatecrash heaven. How long can I last before the deception is noticed?

There's a garden beyond the gate, which I just walk right through without incident. Hey, those two sentences that make up an entire page of this book still have value, just not in terms of advancing the plot or providing anything resembling artistic prose. Anyway, there's a banquet table covered in food and a tree, so I decide to tuck into some of that.

I was on a beach and boozing at the same time...such misadventures!

After getting the old eat, sleep and shelter on, I get a wake-up call from the tree, which apparently can both talk and vomit out exposition regarding a cyclops that used to visit but is now very much into his gold. With Greco-Roman mythology effectively destroying the Garden of Eden allusions there's also a reference to a "fairy queen" but this book pretty much had me at "cyclops." Can't wait to go all Odysseus on the old one-eyed monster.

A short walk later and there's a giant with one eye. "This must be the cyclops." Honestly, between this observational brilliance and my love for lava tube exploration I've really got a bright future ahead. All this heavy duty processing of information leads to being picked up by the dangerous giant and there's a short debate over whether I'd be a "tasty morsel" or impossibly dry and stringy, with my position in this great debate being the latter. 

Unfortunately, this only makes the monster decide to put me on a weight gain diet until I'm sufficiently plump and succulent. Insisting that I "only eat junk food" (Nationality: American) proves useless as somehow this creature from legend has plenty of burgers, fries and other delicious left arm tinglers right there. Oh well, might as well dig in.

I hope the point I'm making isn't too subtle.

Suffice it to say, I use clever trickery worthy of the Hero of Ithaca to get the cannibalistic offspring of Poseidon addicted to the junk food (It's so good, try it!). This eventually puts the bestial abomination into a food coma, while I've meanwhile "lost weight" and can slip between the bars of the cage it was using as a reverse fat camp prison. I take the gold and start thinking of all the amazing charity work I'm going to do with it (Yeah, really) and, presumably, somehow escape this incredible world of barely reheated tales of wonder.

Maybe being denied the R.A. Montgomery lectures I was anticipating put me in a receptive mood, but I actually thought this one was decent. Sure, it was just various well-established elements awkwardly combined but it was painless enough and even delivered a heavy-handed "Knock it off, carb-face!" message. By Which Way Books standards this is high praise. 

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

Which Way Books #3: The Spell of the Black Raven

I really hadn't intended to take a two month break from these reviews, but with my whirlwind romance with the sovereign citizen movement combined with a general work-shy attitude toward reading, here we are. The last one was a classic vampire tale, but it's definitely time to get back to Which Way Books and what, at least superficially, suggests a theme possibly more interesting than their usual stripped down and thoroughly tepid offerings. Ravens and spells, it's like the peanut butter jar and candy bar combination that, for whatever reason, never captured our collective attention. Magic birds, dude. This is going to be something.

Nightmare clown is all "Nevermore, y'all!"

In fairness the high concept set-ups are one of the few strengths of the Which Way series and this one certainly continues in this proud tradition. Like every epic tale of magic and monsters it begins with nothing to do on a Saturday night. "Even television seems boring," we are informed. Now that I find hard to believe, but there it is. What about the scripted comedies and commercial-friendly sporting events? Come on, television always delivers. This is also the second time in the first three books that "television let me down" was a major plot element, while the other involved the time movies failed. Say what you want about this author, he/she/it clearly anticipated the common "Reading sucks!" objections from the grammar school crowd and was prepared to counter them.

Let me photoshop in some booty to really hammer home my intellectual credentials.

No time to dwell on the failure of my one true friend in the living room, there's more cliches to check off. It's my birthday and my wacky Uncle George the anthropologist sent a letter. Yes, another secondary relation with an unusual background. If I made a drinking game out of this I wouldn't get drunk or anything because it would be one drink every four months or so, but still. Can't it ever be wacky grandpa or scholarly in-laws? It's just lazy. Anyway, the letter is to announce a package that will be arriving later from the "Indians" this guy has been studying, because trained anthropologists use that word to describe native peoples and sending a separate letter instead of just taping a card to the package is an efficient use of the postal service.

Anyway, the mystery box arrives later that day. Good thing UPS or whoever coordinated with the snail mailers to make sure it arrived after the explanatory letter. Honestly, just mail it all as one piece, it would work out fine. Academics, they just can't work this "real world" thing at all. Naturally, the mystery box also has a note on it, because logic, declaring it contains a raven named "George." Well, that's a bit banal. I guess the poor miserable guy with the dead wife will ask if he'll ever be happy again and get "George" for a response from the dark devil perched on the bust of Pallas and have to try to make some sense out of that. In any case, there's a raven.

I decide to release the bird because wild animals shouldn't be pets. You're free now "George," fly as high as you can! Of course, the midnight flier promptly returns to my shoulder and continues to resist my efforts to grant him horrible, horrible freedom. Understandable.  

Fly away old friend, with all your might!

I'm not about to be dissuaded and decide to go in the house until it's very clear to Heckle or Jeckle that I'm just not into this. Naturally, this also fails and when I go back outside (see, there's your problem, right there) good old George the Raven is back and he's got the penknife I lost two months ago, presumably during my raid on the castle that wrecked the television reception. Yes, there was a time when child knife ownership was considered normal, healthy and not just cause to bring in the full power of the federal government.

This gift of wussy cutting technology apparently convinces me to allow the raven to stick around and good thing because a sudden intuition allows me to save some guy from blundering into traffic. Must be that ESP. Man, it's like this thing was written by putting a few Choose Your Own Adventure books in a blender and topping off the result with trademark Which Way Books brevity and incoherence. The man's name is "Rocco" and he's offering a job that pays well. The Reagen presidency, friends. I'm so in.

You'll be moving suspicious packages and disposing of human-shaped bundles.

The only catch is I can't bring "the pigeon." You know what, that's fine. I go inside to put George in a box or whatever, but then have second thoughts about the whole thing and the plot line simply ends right there with the book looping back to a "You go to the carnival" choice I would have gotten if I'd taken the other branch from the first choice. Yeah, that's the satisfying pay-off to the "Your ESP helps you become a Made Man" plot. You're pushing me book, you're really pushing me.

With a chance to make sweet bag man money already forgotten I hit the midway and decide to check out the "House of Horrors." Skeletons, witches, blah, blah, I wanted to join the Black Hand not read short, bland prose about various uninspired "scary" elements. I guess the raven is still with me because that's such a well-crafted and organic theme for this bullshit. 

I try to run from a witch that's apparently "real," we get some bloodless "Final Destination" rollercoaster b.s. and I use my magic raven to reunite a mother with a lost child. The End, thank goodness.

I'm totally fine, don't worry.

I'm used to Which Way Books taking a relatively promising and original set-up and completely ruining it, but this one is the worst offender so far. If I can't become the Littlest Don why even offer the choice and worse, why send me back to the start of the book as if this experience meant nothing and can be quickly pushed aside to visit some lame carny attractions. Really, everything I tried to do was over-ruled by the book, always a sign of poor construction. Why even offer choices if they're meaningless? Yeah, this was so disappointing I'm now reduced to existential misery and No Exit navel-gazing, wonderful.

 Just do it right sucker, it really isn't that hard. Be HAPPY!!!! Ugh.

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

Which Way Books #15: Star Trek Voyage to Adventure

Dying a soccer-related death was such a bring-down that a long time has passed since this most noble of projects has seen a new entry, but here we are. The good news is two things I love, original Star Trek and interactive fiction from the Reagan administration have made sweet love and produced a 118 page bundle of love. Unfortunately, in fine monkey's paw fashion this long-held wish has been twisted and corrupted. It's a Which Way book, noted for its "Report due Monday, started at eleven Sunday night" quality and a prose style that could most charitably be called unadorned. Nevertheless, this series was an undeniable powerhouse within the genre, as witnessed by scoring this amazing crossover. Let's put on our space girdle, split some infinitives and set the phasers on "fun."

Sorry McCoy, you didn't make the cut. Green monster guy, you're in.

The limitations of writing a story within an existing setting and established mythology immediately become clear, as we get a highly disappointing introduction. Usually the set-up is one of the few bright spots this series provides, such as bad television reception provoking get-even against a castle or intelligent slime taking over a small town in fly-over country. Suffice it to say, we get none of that delightful madness here. Instead I'm a recent graduate of Starfleet Academy, packing my "space bag." Yes, space bag. They really went all out on establishing this setting. 

Before being assigned to the Enterprise I get to listen to a speech by an Admiral outlining the best practices for boldly going. We're supposed to promote peace, obey the prime directive and in general follow all those rules the series ignored in favor of big right hands, judo throws and destroying entire cultures via speeches delivered with stilted bombast. None of that for me, though, I'm going to obey all the rules. After all this thrilling packing and listening I get to choose my assignment by picking it off a board. Apparently going where no man has gone before is a lot like being a Freshman at a state school.

Set riot shotguns to "ruin."

I select science, because I fudging love science. By that I mean neat pictures and pretending to be superior to others, not yucky equations or trying to figure out the mystery of magnets or something. Spock is busy with a computer that is totally different from any I've ever seen. Maybe an extra disk drive or something, who knows. It turns out the Vulcan is messing with the space time continuum, because that generally goes well. Naturally, things start going wrong almost immediately, with crystals shattering and my new boss getting caught in a "time field." Technically speaking, I think we're all caught in one of those. I obey his instructions not to do anything. Man, easiest job ever.

Yeah, don't even ask.

Spock promptly vanishes and I'm stuck holding the bag so to speak. I don't think "it was like that when I got here" will be enough of an explanation for this. Instead I try to make sense of some notes, but they're in "Vulcan shorthand" and as such indecipherable. All that remains is to pull a lever, because if there's one thing I know for sure it's all the complexities of Wheelchair Man psychics can be distilled down to random lever pulling. 

I yank it back, earning a strong wind and a rush of colors. The clock on the wall is running backward. Huh, seems like I've figured out this incredibly complex mystery device. Spock returns, turns the machine off and is all "Thanks, Bro" and promises to be more careful in the future. The End.  

 See, I'm being very careful.

I can't really call it a disappointment, since I knew pretty much what I was going to get. All the Which Way tropes are here: Three stories to select from, just enough description to get the job done, binary choices that amount to coin tosses and abrupt and unsatisfying endings. On the other hand, Star Trek. Beam me outta here.

Alternate cover looks like a bad photoshop.

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

Which Way Books #2: Vampires, Spies and Alien Beings

After a potential hollow earth adventure ended by playing it safe and avoiding danger it's back to Which Way Books. They're what I'd imagine the Choose Your Own Adventure series would have resembled if it had been produced by East Germans. You've got stark, utilitarian prose, tons of White space where words or illustrations probably should be but are absent in a masterstroke of bleak, modernist art and a quality that veers from pretty good to "There are two doors, which one?" making up an entire page. For all its obvious shortcomings, there's a certain charm to this series. Like that Soviet bloc product, you get the feeling that with everything that was stacked against the makers, including their own considerable limitations, the moderately serviceable final result still represents the best that could be hoped for. On days when the kommissar is there it can aspire to even greater heights than, "well, that's something."

Compare that to Twist-a-Plot, where clearly talented people were involved but they just didn't care and had a massive amount of contempt for their potential readers. I'll take my entire page with two sentences on it, thanks, as long as those two sentences aren't full of terrible, suspension of disbelief shattering attempts at comedy.

You know what, maybe we should just start reading this book.

Today it would be vampires, factory owners and kinky billionaires.

With all the artistry of a Minsk apartment building I'm informed I won the "Grin Toothpaste Sweepstakes." That's pretty much it as far as that goes: no attempts to expand on the concept, no jokes about consuming thousands of tubes of the stuff en route to this amazing triumph, nothing. The only reason it's even mentioned is to provide a fig of explanation for what follows and having served that purpose we just move on. Nice.

The big prize is a trip to a movie lot, but before I can start watching amusing celebrity meltdowns there's crazy noises and the sort of glow that suggests imminent alien abduction. The guide is all "Oh no, it happened!" which might be more understandable in the face of a tantrum from a bankable star than this madness.

The explanation, as you probably already guessed, is the studio created a machine that turns fantasy into reality. Yeah, just let this idea wash over you. One thing you have to say about Which Way, they never met a high concept too ridiculous. "Turn on the reality machine, we need to create glistening blood-suckers of high school age!" Sounds a lot more sensible than endless remakes. 

I feel the Killer Goalie story should be told to every new generation.

The bottom line is we're caught in the "Reality Warp," which sounds more like what happens after a six pack of beer than a science fiction concept. An attempt to run, clearly the best weapon against the very fabric of our world being torn open in pursuit of an off-brand E.T. knockoff, fails when I crash into an invisible barrier and am confronted by three "grays." For some reason the book let's you simply walk away from this inescapable mess to see the vampire movie area, so I do that. 

I end up in a dark classroom where stern Mr. Draco (Man, Harry Potter stole from everything, no matter how humble and forgettable) and am instructed to take a seat. I'm informed by a classmate that the one I selected used to belong to "Charlie" but he was murdered the night before. Well, it's not like he's going to need it, then. 

  If Dracula had studied liberal arts instead of business.

The school day goes by without result and it's pretty clear this part was written to stand alone and then shoe-horned into the "Movie comes alive!" conceit to fill pages. The "reality warp" and movie lot tour have been forgotten and this is all described as banal and ordinary. The teacher wants me to stay after, since I'm new and all. The meeting is going down when halfway through there's a horrible odor. Yeah, creatures of the night were a little different before they discovered their love for erotic tie-up games. I'm given a chance to bolt, but honestly this book is robbing me of my will to resist and I'd kind of like to wrap things up.

Draco denies that there is any smell, which of course confirms that he's the origin. Then I get dizzy and pass up. Yup, they really missed the boat on the concept of vampires using their horrible personal hygiene to get their victims as the centerpiece of the new, totally lame mythology recent years produced.

I treat my hundreds of employees very well.

I wake up in a graveyard and, hey, it's Lisa! Remember her? Well no, in a nice continuity error the route I took to get here contained no references to this character, who apparently was another student that disappeared. I forgive the mistake. When you have to churn out dozens of words a day to write one of these it's easy to see how this might happen. Anyway, she's basically offering to turn me into a vampire, but I'm apparently so slow on the uptake that I just "feel strange" about this whole arrangement.

I tell her to put in the fangs and that's what happens. I'm given the dark gift and become an undying monster. Still, I'm an optimist to the last, realizing this means no more "decimal points" or being told not to stay up late. Sorry kid, if you're going to become an industrialist like most of the undead you're gonna need that long division. 

All amazing.

I didn't like this one. It seems likely that the author couldn't manage the 3,000 words required to produce a full Which Way Book and just combined some failed, poorly edited fragments with the "reality warp" nonsense providing the link. It doesn't really auger well for this series that this sort of almost unbelievable laziness is already happening two books in. I also didn't like how clueless to obvious genre elements my character was. This isn't a zombie movie ("Some kind of ghoul...or walker? I don't know!") so there's really no excuse.

Maybe the "aliens" and "spies" portions were better, but I'd bet a shiny nickel against it.

  Mars needs suburbanites. 

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