Jack woke up to the sound of a gong. Not a gentle, meditative gong—the kind that announces a bloodsport. His head pounded in triple time, and the floor beneath him was cold, damp concrete.
“Welcome,” boomed a voice from overhead, “to the Hungover Games.” The Hungover Games
Then he heard it: a soft, wet ah-choo from across the arena. Jack woke up to the sound of a gong
Jack, moving slowly and deliberately, grabbed the sunglasses and the burrito. He ate the burrito in three desperate bites, then put on the sunglasses. For a moment, the world softened. “Welcome,” boomed a voice from overhead, “to the
What followed was not heroic combat but the ugliest, most pathetic scramble in reality TV history. A man in a bathrobe tried to fight for the Advil but threw up instead. Two women formed a shaky alliance based on the fact that they both had the same Uber receipt from last night. Someone screamed, “I just want to go home and lie down,” and three others nodded in solidarity, forfeiting immediately.
The Hungover Games: no one really wins. But at least you don’t have to fight for the Advil alone.