The bar is dark and has a few other zims dancing like dogs with rabies by a shitty 2005 radio in the corner. I see one girl named 'Winter Vacation' at the bar as Fecit clicks on one of the chairs for me to sit.
What kind of name is Winter Vacation? Who decides these names? I can see she isn't a real avatar but a generated character made and put in the zims world. Nice that I'm living in a world full of false people that have decided responses and specific emotions to different things.
Fecit decides I am to order a drink.
I don't know the name but it has flames erupting from the small-ass glass. And why is the glass so small? I want more than a few sips of alcohol! And I also don't wanna drink no fire. What the hell? Does everyone here just enjoy swallowing deadly beverages? Probably. That would explain why everyone just talks like they are on drugs. Like I could strike up a conversation with Miss Winter Vacation here about the weather and she would twist it around to squids and handcuffs. Or both.
The drink is surprising good and thank the dust in Lucifer's cage that Fecit orders some food from the bartender. I am bloody starving! Really looks like he could fry up some fries behind there. Totally. All those kitchen appliances and that quality grill he could use. Not, there is no fricken kitchen stuff back there.
Oh the drink is called something called a 'Flaming Waylon' I found out. Whatever the hell that means.
My fries are served and taste like armpit sweat. Don't ask me how I know what that tastes like. I haven't bloody been licking armpits or anything but I would image this is what sweaty armpits taste like.
Fecit decides it's time for me to dance. Dear Lord. He probably won't be any help but I like saying it. Maybe he could float down with his Jeesusy grace and break out some sweet moves. What in actual hell am I talking about. Sorry to any christians I just offended.
The music is techno and sounds like R2D2 mixed with an 80's aerobics TV show melody.
Fecit clicks on the stereo and I instantly (and against my will) began to pump out some moves. Man zims suck at dancing. I'm not even controlling my own body. I feel like a cockroach has just crawled up my jeans and I'm frantically trying to rid myself of it by jumping around and yelling random things.
"Can I stop now?" I say but it comes out as an excited scream that says. "Narbel!"
I shimmy until the meter above my head reaches the end and the imaginary insect leaves my body then I suddenly desperately need to pee. I guess dancing helped that Flaming Waylon make it's way through my intestines quicker.
Fecit clicks upon the bladder-relieving receptacle of destiny. Too much imaginative description? too bad, my story bitches.
After my intimate time spent in a bathroom cubicle, Fecit thinks it's alright to send me off to talk to some guy across the room.
He is my height (like all zims are), blonde hair, green eyes, yellow hawaiian pants, and a blue singlet. looks like a Jersey Shore boy. Looks slightly Aussie.
I am force-walked over and have to begin conversation with a 'funny introduction'. Humor is my thing. Not that I really care to put any effort into making this fuck-boy laugh but it's not like I'm controlling my own life or anything. Fecit decides my next few actions;
Deep conversation (about fishing nets. Why not? So engaging. What? You wouldn't wanna talk about fishing nets?)
Shake hand (because you introduce yourself after you've had a deep conversation).
tell a joke (spoiler; it's about a chicken crossing the road. Hilarious right?)
Tell unbelievable story (Dinosaurs and aliens apparently. (Yeah like that's going to be believable in the slightest).
YOU ARE READING
Controlled- A Video Game-Based Novel
Nezařaditelné"Hey there! Main character here. Can't tell you my name yet because, you know, you gotta read the book first otherwise, what's the point?" "Hey! I wanna talk too!" "Shush. They haven't read about you yet. Butt out. You'll be spoiling the potential...
