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If you decide to kick down the door to the lavatory, vomit up your drugs, bust open the condoms, and down them as fast as you can before you land, turn to page 3.

If you decide to kick down the door to the lavatory, vomit up your drugs, and force them down Ronâs throat instead, making him your unwitting effeminate drug-mule, turn to page 2.

Page 2

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With one sharp, determined kick, the little plastic sheet rattles off its hinge and swings open. You find Ron hugging his knees, rocking back and forth on the toilet. He has wildly applied lipstick all over his face, and is singing something about âfeeling prettyâ quietly to himself.

He went to his happy place.

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You shove a finger down your throat, and painfully bring up a series of small rubber orbs. You grab two in your fists, and begin advancing upon Ron. âIf you had any gag reflex left,â you warn him, âthis would be terrible for you.â His eyes cloud over; a dim, unfocused stare overtaking them. In a flash he is on you, slamming you with an leaping spin-kick. Youâre not even sure how he managed that in an airplane bathroom so small you'd have to lift the lid just to get your dick out, but manage it he has. âCHO!â Ron shouts, his blur of a fist embedding itself into your stomach. You puke two condoms full of heroin onto his shoes in retaliation, but he seems unphased by your attack. He crouches down quickly, then leaps upward, bringing with him a soaring uppercut that sends you backflipping into oblivion. You die choking on your foot, and nobody mourns you, because you make terrible, terrible decisions. Remember that one time you ate a penguin? That was messed up, dude.

The End.

Page 3

You kick at the surprisingly hearty plastic door again and again, only to rebound uselessly off of it.

Karate is way harder than it looks on Power Rangers.

Ron mistakes your pathetic blows for polite knocking, and informs you in a choking voice that it is âoccupado.â After several minutes of begging, pleading, apologizing, and ultimately dropping to your knees and singing two verses of Journeyâs âOpen Armsâ for him while the rest of the cabin laughs at you, he relents. He emerges from the bathroom oddly composed, pats you on the head, and seamlessly trots off to offer drinks to the other passengers. With no time to spare, you shove a finger down your throat and bring the drug bags up. You frantically rip into each bag, downing their contents as fast you can. After a foul feast of prophylactic-and-vomit flavored mystery drugs, you once again take your seat next to the ratty conspirator. âDid you flush it all?â He asks. The hatred you feel for yourself at this moment actually borders on the hilarious. You stifle a giggle. A giggle which is impossible to stifle, because the shaking of your own ribs tickles you, which makes you giggle more, and this ridiculous situation is pretty funny, which makes you giggle more, which makes your ribs tickle again, and all of this is irrelevant now because the time vortex has opened up, and the entire front half of the plane is being swallowed by the pastel swirling of the Underverse.