Filthy, battered, itching fiercely from an unrecognized encounter with poisonous plants, and nearly exhausted, you have been slogging these bleak and forbidding lands for weeks. You drained your account at the Absconders and Defaulters National Bank to mount this expedition, and now the gin is running out. You don't even want to think about your liver. It may not be worthy of exhibit in the British Museum, but the pathology department at the Hot Cross Hospital will certainly be interested.
You feel like weeping; you might as well have stayed by the slit in the stream bed and waited for plate tectonics to widen it. You are in front of that all too familiar white house again!
11th place (out of 27) in the 4th Annual Interactive Fiction Competition.
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