All roads lead to...
You're draped across your favorite ultra-modern red chair, relaxing after subjecting yourself to hours of humiliation at the hands of a few latin ruffian footballers. Suddenly the lulling frangrance of your post-game chamomile and lavender under-eye oil is interrupted by a stench of outrage and rebellion. Now alert and surveying the room, you mull a risky attempt at escaping the contemptuous piles of forgotten comic books poised to devour the one responsible for their pitiful, meaningless existence.
You have 3 choices:
- Your quota for self-castigation has not been met for today despite your earlier public whipping on the soccer field. You decide to submit to the ire of your looming collection.
- You're determined to be victorious over something today. A little pent up rage doesn't dampen your confidence. If only you could make it to the fridge for a little refueling.
- Those "WHAM's", "BANG's" and BAM's" are too fierce for you. You sacrifice your favorite ultra-modern red chair, hurling your bundle of sleek lines and first-rate craftsmanship into the path of the oncoming assault, and get the hell out of Dodge.