Virginia Tech: A Cho-ose Your Own Adventure
Still groggy, you get out of bed and pick up the Tupperware sitting on your desk, as well as some cheap wooden chopsticks that were left over after some takeout Chinese. Still in your pajamas, you pick at the bowl. You're not really hungry, you just want the growling in your stomach to go away.
You swallow a few chunks of dog meat that has gone slimy and rancid from having sat out un-refrigerated all night. It sure doesn't taste nearly as good as when mom is able to find a fresh stray mutt and pop it into the pot overnight. This is kind of a crappy last meal, you think as you stuff the last, room temperature bite of kimchee into your mouth and toss the container away.
You spend the next hour getting dressed in your black shirt, khaki vest and baseball cap. Then you sit on the bed and start loading bullets into your magazines. Each one fits into the top of the magazine with a satisfying click. You stuff them into the pockets of your vest as you finish loading them.
However, the growling in your stomach hasn't gone away. In fact, it's gotten worse. The growling has graduated to a full on stomachache by the time your dressed. When your done loading fourteen magazines, it has turned into nausea. Fuck it, you figure you can soldier through.
When you stand up from the bed, a big ball of gas groans audibly in your stomach and you double over. You suddenly need to take a crap really bad, and I mean really bad. Your butthole is twitching just trying to keep the flood of shit from filling your shorts.
You stumble out of your dorm room and head towards the communal toilets. There's one guy from your floor already in there, busy flossing in front of the sink. You pay him no mind as you burst into a stall and fumble around trying to pull your pants down. You get them down and plant your ass on the seat just in time before a geyser of liquid shit erupts from your colon with a juicy fart. The smell is horrible and triggers your already weak stomach to send vomit flying out your esophagus, splattering the door to the stall.
"Dude, you okay?" the other guy in the bathroom asks.
You don't answer. Another burst of diarrhea floods out of your ass, as well as more vomit. The floor looks like a soup of stomach acid, half digested dog meat and kimchee. It's getting all over your shoes.
The guy who was flossing knocks gently on the door. "Seriously, brah...you alright in there? Do I need to call an ambulance?"
"Fuck off you fucking rich kid!" you scream, cords of mucus dangling from your mouth.
"Christ dude, I just wanted to help..." the guy says. You hear him pick up his stuff and the snapping of his flip-flops as he leaves the bathroom. Now you are left alone to puke a shit in peace.
The geyser of shit has now turned into a trickle. There's nothing left in your stomach to vomit up, but that doesn't keep dry heaves from crushing your chest. You start feeling cold; extremely cold. Chills go up your spine and you shake. Everything is getting fuzzier, fainter. You're going unconscious. The last thing you feel as you fall forward off the toilet is your head slamming against the vomit-covered door of the toilet stall.
Then you black out.
You don't know how long it's been when you regain consciousness (probably a couple of hours). You are now in a hospital bed. There is an IV drip in one arm. The other arm is cuffed to the gurney.
There is someone in the room with you. You look up as far as your neck will allow. You still feel sick as hell. "Where...where am I?"
The other person in the room speaks. "You're in the university clinic, Mr. Cho," he says. "It seems you came down with a bad case of food poisoning."
The man stands up. He isn't dressed in nurse scrubs. What is he doing here?
"I don't want to be insensitive to the spirit of multiculturalism on this campus, but there's a reason why people in this country don't eat dogs."
Bastard...you bastard...you scream in your mind.
"Now about all those bullets you seem to be carrying with you..."
You swallow a few chunks of dog meat that has gone slimy and rancid from having sat out un-refrigerated all night. It sure doesn't taste nearly as good as when mom is able to find a fresh stray mutt and pop it into the pot overnight. This is kind of a crappy last meal, you think as you stuff the last, room temperature bite of kimchee into your mouth and toss the container away.
You spend the next hour getting dressed in your black shirt, khaki vest and baseball cap. Then you sit on the bed and start loading bullets into your magazines. Each one fits into the top of the magazine with a satisfying click. You stuff them into the pockets of your vest as you finish loading them.
However, the growling in your stomach hasn't gone away. In fact, it's gotten worse. The growling has graduated to a full on stomachache by the time your dressed. When your done loading fourteen magazines, it has turned into nausea. Fuck it, you figure you can soldier through.
When you stand up from the bed, a big ball of gas groans audibly in your stomach and you double over. You suddenly need to take a crap really bad, and I mean really bad. Your butthole is twitching just trying to keep the flood of shit from filling your shorts.
You stumble out of your dorm room and head towards the communal toilets. There's one guy from your floor already in there, busy flossing in front of the sink. You pay him no mind as you burst into a stall and fumble around trying to pull your pants down. You get them down and plant your ass on the seat just in time before a geyser of liquid shit erupts from your colon with a juicy fart. The smell is horrible and triggers your already weak stomach to send vomit flying out your esophagus, splattering the door to the stall.
"Dude, you okay?" the other guy in the bathroom asks.
You don't answer. Another burst of diarrhea floods out of your ass, as well as more vomit. The floor looks like a soup of stomach acid, half digested dog meat and kimchee. It's getting all over your shoes.
The guy who was flossing knocks gently on the door. "Seriously, brah...you alright in there? Do I need to call an ambulance?"
"Fuck off you fucking rich kid!" you scream, cords of mucus dangling from your mouth.
"Christ dude, I just wanted to help..." the guy says. You hear him pick up his stuff and the snapping of his flip-flops as he leaves the bathroom. Now you are left alone to puke a shit in peace.
The geyser of shit has now turned into a trickle. There's nothing left in your stomach to vomit up, but that doesn't keep dry heaves from crushing your chest. You start feeling cold; extremely cold. Chills go up your spine and you shake. Everything is getting fuzzier, fainter. You're going unconscious. The last thing you feel as you fall forward off the toilet is your head slamming against the vomit-covered door of the toilet stall.
Then you black out.
You don't know how long it's been when you regain consciousness (probably a couple of hours). You are now in a hospital bed. There is an IV drip in one arm. The other arm is cuffed to the gurney.
There is someone in the room with you. You look up as far as your neck will allow. You still feel sick as hell. "Where...where am I?"
The other person in the room speaks. "You're in the university clinic, Mr. Cho," he says. "It seems you came down with a bad case of food poisoning."
The man stands up. He isn't dressed in nurse scrubs. What is he doing here?
"I don't want to be insensitive to the spirit of multiculturalism on this campus, but there's a reason why people in this country don't eat dogs."
Bastard...you bastard...you scream in your mind.
"Now about all those bullets you seem to be carrying with you..."
