Adventure Crime

Work Yourself Into A Chaotic Frenzy

Magma Lava
Your lust for power cannot be sated. You breathe out, and the group of gathered onlookers is suddenly enveloped in a purple mist. Soon you can hear them collapse to the ground, and you begin to feel their lifeforce flowing into you. A spectacular rush of adrenaline and euphoria widens your eyes, staggering you.  

“Such energy!” you cry.

“What was that?” A lawn care worker who is trimming a nearby hedge inquires.

“Die fiend!” you shout at him, spraying him with some of the mist.

“Arrrgghh!” He says, dying.

You slowly levitate into the air. You gesture and a nearby house, uprooting it from its foundation as if it weighed nothing at all. You send it spinning off and it quickly disappears over the horizon, trailing clumps of dirt.

“You want to do more. You want to destroy even greater things. You want to destroy everything, if possible.” You say, speaking for some reason as if you were a narrator in some ill-conceived, nonsensical story.

Looking down at your hands, you see red beams of light extending from your fingers in all directions. It looks pretty neat. Waving them about, you quickly discover that posess the ability to slice through everything in their path with ease. Even better. You rise into the air, hovering about a mile above the earth, and being streaking the beams across the ground for a long while, wondering to yourself if they are cutting all the way through the earth to China.

Soon you have your answer. The ground begins to shake. The sky blackens. Huge columns of rock shoot up from the gaping fissures open in the earth’s surface. Streams of glowing red magma spew high into the air, one coming very close to enveloping you. You float easily out of the way and lie on your stomach in mid air to watch the rest of the show.

Within minutes the entire planet is a roiling mass of lava and charred black rock. You’re pretty sure you’ve destroyed the earth.

Good one.

Apologize Sheepishly & Cast The Demons Back Into Hell

Light Storm
“Alright, alright, I'll get rid of them. Jeepers.” You mutter, waving your hand in the air.

Immediately the sky clears and the otherworldly creatures vanish into puffs of sulfurous smoke. The officers who had been battling the creatures stand dumbly for a few moments and then, shrugging, climb back into the few remaining squad cars and whoosh out of the lot. The manager levels a finger at you and growls though gritted teeth.

“That's better. Next time, keep it in your pants, Chacho.”

Then, whirling around she swishes back through the door and into the bank, a trail of visibly shaken employees following in her wake.

“What a lousy 'B',” you curse and kick at some sand on the sidewalk, “Why does she have to be so mean about it?”

You head back inside and make your way to your desk. You sit staring off into space for a while, the fluorescent light above your head flickering and buzzing. Then you shuffle some papers around for another few minutes and decide to head out to lunch. As you pass her office, the manager screeches out at you.

“And just WHERE do you think YOU’RE going?!”

“Lunch?” You ask.

“Oh no. You HAD your lunch. You can just consider that little RUCKUS you caused earlier your lunch, buddy boy.”

You hang your head and trudge back to your desk. You spend the rest of the day at your desk creating a crossbow out of paperclips, a rotten rubberband, and a small pencil you’ve gnawed almost to the lead.

You never really get it to work, and so you toss it into the trash on your way out the door at the end of the day.


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Attempt To Break The World's Record For Running

World Record Run
You decide to break the world’s record for running. Realizing you’ll need someone to witness this, you turn and sprint down the next dirt driveway you see and arrive at an old run-down farmhouse. An old man in coveralls sits on the front porch in a rocking chair with a large piece of grass in his teeth. A beat-up old mutt lies at his side.

“I’m going to break the world’s record for running.” You announce, jogging in place and touching your toes.

The old man looks at you from under his bushy eyebrows and spits on the ground. You wonder if perhaps he hadn’t heard you. You take a deep breath and cup your hands to your mouth.

“I AM GOING TO BREAK THE WORLD’S RECORD FOR RUNNING!” You scream, directly in his face.

“Gahead.” The old man mutters as he creaks back in his chair, “Aint nun stoppin yuns.”

“Yuns?” you wrinkle your face.

“Yuns! Yuns!” The old man repeats, “Doncha speak anglish? Fuggin cityboah re-tahd.”

“Well I always just assumed yuns was plural.” You whisper, twirling one side of an imaginary mustache.

“Assumpshin ain't nun tuh take prahd in.” The old man sputters, leaning back even further in his chair.

Suddenly there’s a loud crack and the old man and his chair topple backwards through the rotted railing of the deck. The dog struggles to its feet and begins barking wildly. You dash out and around to the back of the deck and find yourself staring down at the old man’s crumpled and lifeless frame. You sniff, brushing some small pieces of wood from his hair and smoothing it lovingly across his forehead.

“I never even knew your name…” You whimper, straightening the lapel of his soiled coveralls, “I’ll call you Mudge.”

Some time later you’re patting down the last of the dirt atop Mudge’s grave. You remove the posy from behind your ear (where you've always kept it) and place it in front of the makeshift coffee can headstone.

“Goodnight sweet prince.” You say, turning to wipe away a tear.

Get Rid Of All The Prickly Pods In The World

Prickly Pod
You decide to put an end to those little prickly pods once and for all. You blink twice and suddenly you feel sure that all the prickly pods in the world have vanished. You have to trust your instincts on this fact though, because by this time you’re well away from any heavily wooded areas where you'd be able to go and check.

You glance down and do a quick scan of your clothes, but you find nothing. You assume this is either because you’d managed to pick off the prickly pods when you had noticed them previously, or because you have in fact caused every single prickly pod to vanish from the earth.

You spend a couple weeks traveling around and doing various things, but you just can’t get the pods out of your head. You’ve got to be sure that every single one is gone! You decide to head out into the wilderness to check it out, but by the time you’ve decided this it is already winter, a time when the pods would be all but impossible to spot.

You wait until spring. When it arrives, you take a walk in the woods. But you’re not sure exactly where to look, so you kind of just mill around for a couple of months in different forests sort of disinterestedly taking branches in your hands and letting them fall, and whipping at underbrush with a large stick while crying “Hyaah!”

Finally you realize you’ll never truly know if every prickly pod is gone. It will haunt you for the rest of your days. You fall asleep that night feeling empty and hollow and unfulfilled.
“Prickle, prickle, my little ghosty pods,” you whisper softly by the light of the waning moon.

“Prickle prickle.”



Perform Mass Mind Control On The Audience & Cause Pandemonium

Angry Crowd
You fly up and land on the roof of the bank, turning around to face the assembled police and clear your throat in preparation for your speech. Secretly, you begin sprinkling invisibue seeds of psychic disarray over the crowd from the skies. You talk and talk and talk, waiting for the psychic chaos seeds to take effect. Nobody will suspect a thing. Your speech drags on.

“Booo! What a load of crap!” Somebody in the crowd finally shouts.

“Why don’t you let the boy speak, Jameson?” A voice at the back cries.

“Yeah Jameson, keep your fat damn mouth shut!” A tall officer chimes in.

“I’ll shut YOU, you son of a bitch! Jameson screams and begins pushing through the crowd towards him.

Everyone begins talking at once. A few scuffles break out. An officer in the middle of the pack swoons and collapses to the pavement. A woman screams. You stand on the roof, smiling broadly. A very old man in a fedora climbs onto one of the squad cars and puts a megaphone to his mouth.

“Friends! Friends! We’ve got to have order here! We’re officers of the law! Everyone calm down!” He pleads.

One man gasps and claps his hands to his head.

“Ack, my ears!” he shouts.

“Order, order!” The old man continues to scream through the squealing megaphone.

“Would someone shut that old man up!?” Jameson cries as he puts the tall officer in a headlock and wrestles him to the ground.

“Mmph.” Agrees the tall officer.

“I’ll fix him!” A female detective says, and begins firing her gun in the general direction of the old man.

A few officers drop to their knees, giving cries of “shots fired” and spraying bullets into the crowd. A few others simply hurl their guns at whoever is nearby. A few others lie down and begin to moan, scrabbling in the dirt and tearing at their faces and hair.

Soon the commotion dies down, and the parking lot runs red with blood. You stand atop the bank with your arms crossed and a satisfied grin on your face. It’s time like these that make a man glad to be alive.

Tell A Touching Story About An Old Man & The Starfish On The Beach

Kicking the man’s limp body aside, you step forward and clear your throat, gesturing for everyone to be seated. The policemen exchange glances and then settle obediently into the grass in front of you. You begin.

“I was out walking along a beach at low tide when I came across an old man who was picking up starfish from the sand and throwing them into the ocean.

“My old friend,” I said, “whyever are you throwing those starfish into the ocean?”

“Ah,” he replied sagely, “These poor starfish were stranded here in the sand when the tide rolled out. If I did not throw them back, surely they would dry out and perish!”

“But,” I protested, “There are thousands of starfish on this beach! One man can’t possibly throw enough back to make a difference!”  

He stooped to pick up another starfish and smiled, "Makes a difference to this one." He said, throwing it into the sea.

You finish your story, looking expectantly out over the silent crowd. Someone coughs.

“The old man was an idiot,” someone finally says, “He was upsetting the delicate balance of that ecosystem. Those dead starfish would’ve been food for other creatures, maybe seagulls or at the very least, microorganisms. It’s a perfectly normal thing. And anyway, I don’t even think starfish have nervous systems. Can’t that old man think of any SENTIENT creatures that might need help? Stray cats? Injured birds? What about the homeless? But starfish? He might as well go through an orchard gluing fallen apples back onto the trees, for all the good it does. It’s patently absurd.”

The crowd grows restless. Some begin to shout curses. A few people get up to leave.

“Ah, what do you people know anyway,” You scoff, spitting on the ground at your feet. “You all make me sick.”

A series of boos erupts from the crowd. Someone throws half-peeled orange and it strikes the wall behind you. You pick it up and toss it into the air a couple of times, glaring into the mob of cops. Then you draw your arm back and whip the orange into the audience as hard as you can, bouncing it off the head of one huge cop and then striking another the eye.

“Makes a difference to this one!” You scream, spreading your arms wide as the mass of angry cops surges over you.

Open A Manhole To See If There Are Mutants In The Sewers

You gallop down the road towards the nearest town, your eyes scanning frantically for a manhole cover. Suddenly you spot one, heft it over your head, and fling it off into a ditch. You jump down the hole. Once inside you hitch up your belt and begin walking down the tunnel. You travel for what seems like hours, whistling contentedly as you slosh through goop. Turning a corner you come to a small metal grate. In front of it, a heavyset mutant guard sits reading the newspaper with his feet on a desk. You approach cautiously, clearing your throat.

“Um, excuse me but is this the door to the mutant colony?” you inquire timidly.

“Waterpark.” The guard gurgles without looking up.

“Waterpark?” Your heart jumps, “You mutants have an underground waterpark!?”

“Yeap.” Says the guard, turning a page.

“D--d-d-do you think it would be possible…I mean..if at all...if...what I mean you think…I could…go in?” You grimace, gritting your teeth.

The guard shakes his head and gestures towards a small sign you hadn’t noticed before:

Mutants Only.

You stand for a moment staring at the sign, and then quickly turn back the way you came. From through the grate behind you comes the sounds of splashing and happy mutant laughter. Tears well up in your eyes and the world begins to blur. You walk until you can’t walk anymore and splash down in the center of the tunnel, putting your head in your hands. You feel sadder than you ever remember feeling in your life. In time you drift off into a cold and restless sleep, your face wet with tears.

In your dreams you sit at the edge of a crystal clear ocean, swathed in a soft white robe. You smile contentedly as you gaze out over the shimmering waves, where radiant mutant children churn and splash amongst cool waters.

Hop A Passing Freight Train & Ride The Rails

Ride Rails
“Life on the rails is the life for me!” you cry, clicking your heels and making for the train tracks.

Eventually you hear the chugging of an engine up ahead. You grin and increase your pace, weaving delicately through trees and leaping into an open boxcar with a whoop. You come sliding in and come to a stop just in front of a group of filthy bums, a few of whom glance disinterestedly in your direction. The bums say nothing. One scowls and waves you away dismissively. Another snorts, spitting into an old soup can which rests on his knee. A third giggles politely and bows his head. And still another mutters and picks at some scabs on his arms. The rest of the bums are fast asleep.

“Hey!” you scream, pumping your fist in the air, “Hey!”

“Mmphmm…rpphhrr…pantsuits…designer label after all…” One of the sleepers remarks.

“Hnnnggg.” Another adds.

“Spt.” Goes the spitting bum.

“This is a fine how do you do,” you say, “I’ll teach you people some respect.” As you say this you rush over to Spitty and knock the can from his knee, sending it skittering out the open door of the train.  

“My spittin’ can!” he cries, standing and bulging out his chest.

The rest of the bums leap to their feet as well. They encircle you, snarling menacingly and brandishing rotted boards and rusty bicycle chains. The stench is overwhelming. You drop to one knee and whip a penknife from your boot.

“Bring it on you mongrels!” you cry, slashing the air madly.

The battle is cruel and bloody and lasts out the night. You put up a good fight, but you underestimate the fortitude of the homeless. The last thing you ever see is Spitty’s toothless grin as he towers above you with a length of heavy lead pipe clutched in his hands, and the line of drool hanging from his lower lip.


Create A Giant Zeppelin & Fly It Around The World Spreading Love & Good Cheer To All

Air Ride
“Yes!” you cry, “I can do it, if only I believe in myself!”

You extend your fingers and spread your arms wide, and you begin to spin. You gather everything from miles around: You swoop up the trees and the dirt and the grass, the cars and people and woodland animals, you gather bricks and glass and carpet samples. You form it all above your head into a fine and beautiful patchwork zeppelin. At the bottom sits a squadcar as the basket with a beautiful fireplace on top with which will provide the lift.

You climb into the car and flip an imaginary switch and the airship begins to rise, sputtering, into the air.

“So long everybody!” you cry, leaning down out the window towards the huge patch of dead and barren land below, “Don’t you worry, I’ll be back in no time at all!”

Days pass. Then months. Years. Decades. Centuries.

Then one day as the sun shines brightly in the sky, a curious mother and daughter pay a visit to the field. They walk around wondering at the crunch of the cold grey ground; amazed at the absence of anything. As they pass the place where your zeppelin first took to the skies, the girl stoops, a light breeze rippling her blue dress.

“Mommy, look!” she cries, pointing at a lone blade of bright grass which has pushed through the lifeless soil. Stooping, she rips it free.

“Don’t touch that.” The mother cautions, striding over, “It’s toxic.”

The mother grasps the girl’s arm and begins to pull her across the field, the grass fluttering away.

“We’ll just see what your father has to say about this.” The mother scolds.

Eventually, the two disappear over the ragged horizon, the wind howling at their backs.

Some time later, a shadow glides across the sun, casting a veil of darkness over the field for a single fleeting moment. Soon the wind has died down and everything is silent once again.

Adapt West Side Story Using The Cops As Human Puppets

You gesture grandly and the officers leap to attention. A crowd of curious bank tellers has gathered, and settles in the grass nearby to watch.
You can’t quite remember how West Side Story starts, so you decide to just have the cops prance gracefully about the parking lot performing various tricks while “Maria” blares from unseen speakers. This results in a light smattering of confused applause from the crowd. A Calypso version of “Officer Kropkey” begins to play. The cops sashay towards one another while yowling and pawing the air in front of them like playful cats. When the two lines meet, the officers buckle and form an amazing spiraling shape, raising their arms to the sky as they weave and swoosh in a dizzying kaleidoscope of majesty.

“They are in fact basking in the glorious love of the sun god Ra,” you explain helpfully to the crowd, “which is represented here by the disco ball blazing orange above their bobbing heads.” Upon hearing this, a number of employees nod emphatically.

Then, like a bolt of lightning heaved by the hand of mighty Thor himself, the first electric notes of “When You’re a Jet” crackle through the air. Raucous cheers erupt from all around. One poor woman faints dead away and is dragged out of the crowd by a pair of primordial dwarves you’ve prepared for just such an occasion. “Never fear folks.” You chuckle, “All part of the act.”

And the dancers dance.

Women sprout beauteous blood-soaked wings comprised solely of love and harmony. Hearty strongmen weep tears of purest love and ecstasy, growing into old men in mere moments, and then shrinking quickly into infants, who lay there squirming in the grass; their sagging diapers soiled beyond comprehension.

When the curtain finally falls there isn’t a dry eye in the house. You’ve given the performance of your life, and you die there in the grass surrounded by those you’ve grown to know so very well, and love so very deeply.


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