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Wow, the title screen! Wait... isn't that PRISM?
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Wow, the title screen! Wait... isn't that the second title screen?
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And so the game star—
WHATSOEVER!!
Jeez, that was forced, game. Well, let's look at the interface:
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Well, we have a couple of options. You would do well to note that none of them involve wastebaskets nor consumption.
Let's examine that toilet paper:
It's a full roll of toilet paper. It adds a civilized touch to these barbaric surroundings.
We can also talk to ourselves.
Talking to yourself might be fun but it isn't very helpful!!
Not helpful? I've always found that voicing my thoughts out loud cleared my mind, allowing me to relax. Thus, I feel this game is against relaxation. Do you know what else is against relaxation? Punching yourself in the face.
Don't pat yourself on the back yet.
Wow, this guy is a darn masochist! I bet he has horrible taste in clothes, too! Surely, anyone who looked at that trench coat over there would immediately fall in love with it... [[supersecretspoiler:Trench coat, will you marry me?]]
It's a light brown trench coat that matches your trousers. You feel something in the pocket of the coat.
Apparently Mr., um... Apparently Mr. Masochist doesn't share my enthusiasm. He does, however, psychically feel the presence of something in the coat. What could it be? Let's find out! After hitting the toilet paper, of course.
Wham!! Your hand is numb from the impact.
... Anyway, the coat has 7 coins, a lighter, some sugarless gum, a hanky, a pair of sunglasses, and a wallet. The wallet has a key with the word "office" inscribed on it, a punch card, and a $20 bill.
Let's look at the card: It's a card with several holes punched into it. So what, we program 50s computers? It says, "Private access card, penthouse, Siegel."
Wow, we must be Seigel.
...
Wow, we must be loaded. Let's celebrate by putting on our cool shades.
You can't put them on. They are too big.
:(
Oh well. Let's look at the handkerchief:
It's a handkerchief with the initials J.S. on it.
J. Siegel, Private Eye. That has a nice ring to it. But private detectives follow fat men around and make sure they aren't having affairs. Private eye is a horrible job. I'm assuming that I'm a police consultant. That sounds about right. J. Siegel, Police Consultant. That's a fine name for a fine police consultant. Now let's see if we have a fine wallet for a fine police consultant.
It's a very fine leather wallet. It looks very expensive.
Heck yeah. Now let's see that lighter:
It's a gold plated lighter. It has the initials "J.S." on it.
Gold plated? Well now; looks like we're made of money. The coins, I theorize, are extremely rare 1792 half dismes. Darn, we're carrying around $945,000 worth of coins in our trench coat. Heck yeah!
It's a quarter.
A 1834 Quarter Eagle, worth anywhere from $5400 to $42,250? That's still anywhere from $37,800 to $295,750. Right?
It's a quarter.
:( We have a $21.75 in quarters. Well, I guess we spent it on penthouses and gold lighters. Oh well. Let's actually take the coat now.
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There's nothing more handy than a .38 at your side. [Why doesn't it say that whenever you take the gun[[supersecretspoiler:1]] instead of when you take the trench coat?]
Let's look at that puppy: It's a .38 special. Go ahead and make your day.
Being a good little sadist, he does.
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...Good job. That's a great way to go out with a bang. ...so much for your dreams and aspirations.
But you told him to do it.
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From the beginning, the odds were against you. It was only a matter of time until you reached the end.
The end of this update? You know, between having retrograde amnesia, burning through my vast fortune, shooting myself in the foot with a .38 special, and slowly bleeding to death, I'm feeling pretty emotionally drained. I think I'll take them up on that offer.
You're history!!
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