When last we left our intrepid and tragically incompetent Freeway Warrior, we had decided to raid the short bus for a fan belt, chucking out our trusty altimeter. We better hope we don't find ourselves clinging desperately to the burning skin of a dirigible at any point in this little outing or boy will we be sorry!
That decision leads us to talking. Lots and lots of talking. Because when I think "Adventure", I think endless paragraphs of prose. To whet your appetite, however, we eventually end up here:
So keep reading!
I hope it's something to do with stripping naked and hanging off the front of the bus, screaming like banshees! What, no? Fine.
Oh Cutter, you cruel bastard. I bet he flung that car at us on purpose, knowing that instead of heavily investing time and energy into learning how to drive better than a knock-kneed, pimple-faced fourteen year old, we were hiding out in our pillow fort reading.
Sure enough, we get a pathetic "4" on our roll, resulting in a little something we like to call TPK:
Wait, us? DEAD?! Never! My old man always told me, when the going gets tough, the smart get cheating. And that's exactly what I did, "accidentally" shaking the table until the die rolled over onto something more reasonable.
Much better! We're used to getting slapped around at this point, a little more Datsun in our dentures won't even faze us. Now what do I have to roll to get us a cheeseburger and some fries?
Which brings us, at last, to a long-awaited decision point! I knew there was something in the rules or the title that led me to believe we'd be choosing some parts of our adventure, and here it is:
OK, kids, it's time to drive or get run over. What'll it be? I have to admit, the name "Carswell" intrigues me. I imagine some sort of automotive hospital, run by self-aware cars brought to evil life by the power of the atom, swelling in self-righteous indignation.
Or at least some sort of rec center. Guy needs a Kit-Kat from time to time, knowwhatImsayin'?
