You feel cold. So cold you’re shaking. That’s making you nervous, and you’re hesitant to act on it. Instead, you slump a few inches further into your armchair, too lazy and too paralyzed to reach out for the television remote. They’re interviewing Peter Beale—that smug motherfucker of a televangelist—on the local news in a few minutes, and you’re not sure whether or not you want to watch. Maybe you’d go to the station yourself and give him a piece of your mind if you thought you could take him.
A sudden shock of a chill courses through your body. You gasp, seizing for a moment and clutching your chest. It’s not the weather; fuck, it’s almost summer and you can barely afford this shitty apartment, let alone air conditioning. And you’re not sick, either.
It’s worse—you’re fucking hooked. You’re addicted to the Juice, and you’re almost out.
There’s means of scrounging up more around town. But they’re not sustainable. You glance over at your cell phone, in a scorch mark on your coffee table, still smelling faintly of brimstone from the last time you called downstairs.
‘Almost out’ means you’ve still got enough left to contact your employer. Maybe it's time to go big again.
As an aside, your name is…
> Steve, and you’re also addicted to regular meth.
> Celeste, and you also know every degenerate in town.
> Chad, and you’re also recently disowned by your rich parents.
> Roxanne, and you also pretend to be whacked to get sweet prescription drugs.
>Chad, and you’re also recently disowned by your rich parents.
It's a toss up between Steve or Chad for me, but I feel like being a rich kid forced into "poverty" for drugs will make the MC somewhat unique.
All things considered, you’ve done a relatively shitty job of living life on your own; you guess Mom was right about that. You’re a college dropout after just a few semesters, which you owe to poor grades. And you haven’t been able to hold down a real job for too long. Without a dollar of your trust fund—and you’ll do something about that eventually, since it’s your goddamn money, and enough of it to keep you on your feet for life—you’ve fallen about as far as it’s possible for someone to fall.
But you’ve sort of got a part-time job now. It’s not a pretty one, but it’s one that keeps things status quo. And it doesn't always pay in cash, but it gets you what you really want.
It’s acts of douchebaggery and negligence, you once heard, what keep the world turning. There’s a bit of finesse to it, though: you can’t just go around indiscriminately murdering and stealing, and you’re technically not allowed to tempt people to sin.
Get it right, though, and get the Juice. It’s a boon from below. It’s a cheap supernatural charge. It’s what keeps the degenerates around the country on their feet. It’s the reason the drunk driver is –always– the only one to survive the car crash. You got your first taste when you and some guys from your frat went knocking down mailboxes in the dead of night; it was better than any drug or alcohol you’ve ever had, but it leaves you weak, and hollow, and wanting more.
Thankfully, you’re not without your positive qualities! You’re…
> About as strong and ruthless as Michael Myers.
> About as driven and resilient as Jason.
> About as smart and collected as Hannibal Lecter.
> About as paranoid and savvy as the dudes from Funny Games.
You don’t give up easily when you stand to benefit in this manner, and damn if you can’t take a hit. Some might say you’re a big guy—and the ladies loved you on the football team back at your private high school. Those were the fucking days, man.
While you’re thinking about it, you hear multiple sets of heavy footsteps outside your apartment—coming up the stairs in your direction. It’s probably not anything you have to worry about, but it seems just a bit unusual.
Reminiscing doesn’t make you shiver any less. You’ve been flying by for quite a while on your last bit of saved money, and holding on for quite a while with your last bit of the Juice. You’re not the kind of person to go around acting like an asshole to people on the street to get your fix—but damn, does it feel good when you do. No, if you want something that’ll last, you’re going to need a job.
Which sucks, because you hate begging for work.
> You have 6 Juice.
Right now, you’ll…
> Watch a little bit of the televangelist on the news.
> See what’s going on in the hallway outside.
> Call Hell on your cell phone and see if there's anything you can do for work. (-1 Juice)
“God is in all of us,” Beale says, and you roll your eyes a little bit. He’s promoting his upcoming book, which is evidently about how the Antichrist is coming; and that even now there are demons walking among us, and men who tempt and harm others for their own benefit. Sounds completely ridiculous and unfounded. “With my show, and this book, we can all learn to be a part of His plan, to heal the world of these things.”
You’re kind of obsessed with this guy, in the sense that you love to hate him. People like this are more of conduits than they are fonts for miracle-working power; what matters isn’t what they say or do, but how many people believe or rely on them for spiritual completion. A little of the Juice can totally desecrate a Christian preschool or a mosque—but televangelists and their ilk can quickly achieve limited invulnerability to its effects.
“Hey! Open up, you fuck!” There’s an excessively heavy knock on your door, accompanied by the voice of your landlord, Charlie. You’ve kind of been keeping him up in the air in terms of your late rent for the last two or so months, which is an issue, because you can’t exactly pay it.
Standing and pocketing your cell phone, you decide to,
> Say, “Hi! Who is it?”
> Sneakily look through the peephole.
> Send a swarm of roaches into the hallway. (-2 Juice)
You stumble a bit on your way to the door, careful to try and remain unheard. Charlie’s out there, alright. He’s brought two of his friends, too, and it looks like they’ve got baseball bats, which sounds like a ton of fun, except for they don’t seem to be dressed for a game.
“Asswipe. I know you’re in there. It’s been three fucking months!“ He says, loudly. Beating the shit out of you would most certainly be somehow against the law—but you also most certainly owe him a shit-ton of money that you don’t have. Whatever the case, though, the dude is a huge liar. A month ago, he said he’d be stuffing a nine-iron up your ass, not a baseball bat. “Time’s up, so open up and pay up! You know I’ve got a key!”
Damn. If you knew you weren't going to pay your rent anyway, you'd have shelled out for a building with a real fire escape.
You guess you’ll have to…
> Negotiate. (Write-in.)
> Hide in the room and pretend you aren’t home.
> Jump out of the window and fall fifty feet onto the pavement unharmed. (-2 Juice)
You open the window and jump out, tumbling through the air and barely managing to right yourself in your couple of seconds of free fall. What occurs before you hit would be best described as reality giving out for a mere instant, either affording you impossibly good luck or simply forgetting how far you’ve fallen. A ripple of pleasure washes over you, sending shivers down your spine.
Oh, yeah. That’s the stuff.
> You have 4 Juice.
In the alley outside, you land on your feet, and it feels as if you fell four or five feet, as opposed to fifty. A chain link fence blocks the exit toward the back of the apartment building, which means you’ll have to head out via the main street in front.
You’ve decided: you’re going to…
> A safe place, so you can call Satan without your landlord up your ass.
> The mall or some other public place, to try and forget about your problems.
> The news station, to try and get on the air with Peter Beale.
You've talked to the guy, like, twice, and done a job for him before; the Juice you’re using is part of what you’ve had squirreled away since then. You aren’t exactly personal friends, but it would surprise you the kinds of people who try to rub elbows with him.
He’s pretty laid back and is alright about answering his phone, but likes to screen calls for just whatever reason. He doesn’t have a whole lot of tolerance for bullshit, understandably, but all in all the dude is pretty personal as long as you’re willing to stick to a couple of guidelines.
Don’t get the wrong idea, either; they aren’t commandments. A lot of people make that mistake.
You decide you’ll make your way into a more secluded alley, or perhaps the park across the street. As you begin out of the alley, you notice a woman peering toward you, trying to get a look around the dumpster you landed next to. She looks like she’s in her thirties or so, and is walking her dog—a little bichon, or something—on a leash. She’s got her cell phone in the other hand, too, but hasn’t made a call yet; must have seen you fall.
“Uh, are you alright?” She asks.
> “Oh, yeah. That was lucky.” Shoo her away.
> Leave wordlessly.
> Punt her dog into traffic.
> Get real close and ask obnoxious personal questions.
> Make her drop her phone and escape while she’s distracted. (-1 Juice)
>“Oh, yeah. That was lucky.” Shoo her away.
> Get real close and ask obnoxious personal questions.
Make sure not to get too rapey with them, just off putting enough that her next thought is "Oh god not this bullshit" and then walks away
“Oh, yeah.” You say, making your way around the dumpster. “That was lucky.”
“Geez…” She sighs, putting her phone down. “I was just passing by when I saw you fall. I thought you were screwed.”
“So did I.” You respond instantaneously, stepping over her dog and parking yourself well within her personal space. “I love your hair. Do you condition?”
“Oh, I... wait, what?”
“Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?” You ask.
“I, uhm.” She pauses. “If you’re asking whether or not I’m—“
“I’d like to invite you to join us for worship at…”
With a hurried, mumbled end to conversation, she stumbles and almost trips on her way around you, tugging her dog sharply away as she continues down the sidewalk, giving you cautious looks over her shoulder. You shrug, making your way across the street and down the sidewalk into the park, ducking into the shadows under a bridge and producing your cell phone from your pocket.
This next little trick is a handy one you learned from a pamphlet that inexplicably arrived in your mailbox a time after you’d gotten your first taste of the Juice. It’s a well-kept secret that you can actually call the number to reach Hell any time you like, but you’ll get a dial tone unless there’s some supernatural power behind the phone. You don’t actually have to dial; you’ve got it in your contacts.
> You have 3 Juice.
“Hello?” The scent of sulfur wafts from the cell phone’s earpiece. There’s a strange cacophony in the background—it sounds like a loud movie sex scene played over a loud movie murder scene.
“Hey.” You say. “That you, Satan?”
“The very same. Can I ask who’s calling?”
“It’s Chad.” You respond. “Remember, from a few weeks ago?”
“Ah, yeah, I got you.” Comes the response. “What’s going on—how is everything? You doing alright?”
“Yeah, man! Things are great.” You respond. “Actually, I was wondering if there’s anything else you need done, since last time went so well. I’ve got a few days free, so…”
“Oh, Chad.” He sighs. “Look, that was a spur-of-the-moment thing. There was a strike going on, you know how it is. I’m sorry, but I can’t have every last demon thinking I’m just handing out jobs to anyone—and trust me, this is for your own good, too. You’ll—“
“Look, man.” You say. “I need this.”
“Chad. I can’t help you. Go slash someone’s tires, or something. You’ll be happier for it.”
“You don’t understand, man.” You respond. “I really fucking need this. Last time, I promise.”
There’s a sigh from the other end of the line.
“Okay, there is one thing. Listen the fuck close, alright?” There’s a pronounced pause, and the screams in the background stop. “I’m sticking my leg out for you. Some demons are going to be pissed the fuck off for a lot of reasons, and I’m not the one they’re going to take it up with, understand?”
“I got it, okay? I can deal with them. Just give me something.” You say. “Anything.”
“You’ve been glued down watching your local news for a while, right?” He asks.
“Yeah, why?” You respond.
“I need you to get me into the district attorney’s daughter.”
“Oh, that’s fucked up, dude. She’s like fifteen!” You recall they did a piece on the news about her, too—she’s in the hospital uptown, diagnosed with some sort of neurological disease. Some old rich dudes and their kids will probably be over there tonight with flowers and Get-Well-Soon cards.
“Not like that, you dumbfuck—I meant I need you to get her possessed.” He responds. “The union has been trying to pull it off for a while, and Judas bet me I couldn’t do it while I was flaying him last week. If I win, he’s buying us all drinks for the game on Monday night.”
“Okay, yeah. I get it.” You respond. “How the fuck am I supposed to do that?”
“There’s an antique shop about a mile north of your apartment.” He responds. “So much unsold merchandise tucked away in there that at least one thing is basically guaranteed to be evil. Find it, and get it into her treatment room.”
“Nothing,” He responds. “The boys and I are gonna handle the rest.”
“Well, I’m too broke to buy antiques, and there’s gonna be security at the hospital.”
“Figure your shit out, then. You came to me. I didn’t say it was going to be easy.” He responds. “That’s –it–, alright? Call me when you finish, and no sooner, unless it’s seriously important. Got that?”
> Yeah, I got it.
> Ask for an advance.
> Ask him to elaborate on something. (Write-in)
“Yeah. Consider it done.” You nod, and he’s already hung up before you can say anything else.
Making your way back out into the light, you pause and duck down a bit. Past the fence and across the street, you can see Charlie and his two goons exiting your apartment building. Looks like they’re checking the alley for you—and are surprised to find you not splattered on the concrete.
> Confront Charlie.
> Sneak away and head north.
> Go to the other side of the park, find someone, and ruin their day.
You pass back into the shadows briefly, making your way to the far side of the park. Hopefully, the goons won’t find you here.
It’s a pleasant day in the park. There’s a few groups of younger kids having fun on the playground structures, with parents watching or enjoying lunch from benches under the pavilion adjacent. There’s another woman walking a dog, as well as a father and son flying a kite, and a young girl taking pictures of birds and insects with a little digital camera.
Effectively, high fidelity acts of petty dickery. There are some caveats, in keeping with the guidelines Satan sets forth for his little helpers, but they don't get in the way too much.
As stated, you’re don't want to just go around slaughtering and destroying indiscriminately. That's not just because you don't have the resources to pull it off; you're fucking tough, but you aren't a one man army. It’s because torture, ruin, and chaos help people find their true strength, and innocent people go up to Heaven when they die.
No, no. It’s the little things that make all the difference and give you the charge you want. You get the Juice by making people lose faith in themselves, each other, and humanity.
“Hi, there!” You say, approaching with a smile. “Are you taking pictures?”
“Mhm!” The girl says, waving her camera. “I’ve seen three cardinals today already! My Dad says I should make a documentary.”
“Huh.” You shrug. “That’s stupid.”
With a quick and decisive motion, you sweep the camera out of her grip and slam it onto the concrete, crushing it underfoot. The abhorrent look in her eyes—captured in just that instant, where so many pieces of glass, metal, and plastic scatter and fly in all directions—that’s the reason you wake up in the morning.
> You have 4 Juice.
She’s screaming and crying, not even looking at you as she falls to her knees, making the whole scene messier as she digs through all the pieces; unfortunately, the SD card is already concealed within your palm. There’s eyes on you from all around the park, and it looks like a few people are getting up at the pavilion nearby.
“Damnit, Mary! I’ve told you several times not to go to the park on your lonesome to take pictures of some stupid birds!” You shout, getting her attention as you snap the SD card in front of her, right down the middle of the pins. “There’s PEDOS about!”
> You have 5 Juice.
There’s nothing more irksome and delightful than a child’s tears. She’s so young; you wish she was coherent enough to listen to you so you could tell her how many years left she has to suffer.
With a brief glance at the park bridge, you see Charlie and his goons—probably just wandering toward the loudest sound they can hear assuming it’s your fault. They don’t notice you. That is, until a shout comes from the direction of the pavilion a moment later.
“What the FUCK are you doing to my daughter!?”
You decide to…
> Stand your ground.
> Run for it.
> Run for it at just below fifty miles per hour. (-1 Juice)
This is too much for you to handle now, and you elect to simply bail out. Charlie and his goons were a good distance behind you, so it’s likely they’ll get caught up in the scene you’re leaving in your wake. By the time you make it to the edge of the park, it doesn’t seem like any disgruntled parents are following you.
Doesn't seem like it, anyway. You keep a good clip as you make your way down the sidewalk.
> Head for the antique shop.
> Look for something else in town. (Write-in.)
One last detour. On your way north, you decide to stop at a Starbuck’s for a pick-me-up. You’re not all about coffee, but you do have a bit of an ordeal ahead of you. One thing is certain, though, you usually hate these places. Something about the image of the Siren, perhaps, who with her allure draws men to a place of certain death.
Oh—and the fact that all of these places look the same on the inside can’t be a coincidence.
Quiet, and just a few people inside. Everyone seated at a table looks the same: different ages and sexes, of course, but each wearing thick-framed glasses and a scarf, and working on an Apple laptop. There’s a short line of people at the counter, where a perky-looking college age girl is taking orders.
> Assert yourself to the front of the line and order.
> Coffee cups? Drink dispensers? Roaches. Evil laughter. (-2 Juice)
Spend some time being the worst customer on the planet, not only shove to the front of the line and order the most complicated drink they have, do it while talking loudly and viscously over the phone to a pretend secretary. When the drink does come out claim they fucked it up and throw it at the garbage can but miss on purpose and hit one of the hipsters laptops. Be a horror story for the whole shop.
“Hi, I’m ready to order.” You say, walking in front of the front customer as if he weren’t there.
“Uhm, I’m ordering, dude.” He says, trying to shove you aside. You resist, pushing your way in front of him.
“Sir, you have to wait in line.” The cashier says.
“One sec, I’m not done ordering.” You interrupt. “Is ‘grande’ or ‘tall’ the biggest one?”
“Quit holding up the fucking line, asswipe.” Someone says from behind you. “I’ve got work in a half hour.”
“I have a free birthday reward.” You turn, speaking loudly, then swivel back to face the cashier. “I have to use my free birthday reward.”
“You can go in front of me. Just order.” The guy behind you says, resigned. “If you’re going to do this, please just get it over with.”
“Thank you for understanding.” You take a contracted pause to look at the menu, then make unblinking eye contact with the girl behind the counter. “I’ll have an iced venti caramel macchiato. Fifteen shots of vanilla. Easy on the ice. Made with heavy whipping cream, please.”
“Okay,” She says, hesitating. “I’ve got…”
“One sec, hang on. I’ll also do a shot of espresso, and add whip and extra caramel drizzle. Can I do that double-blended?” You ask. “Can you repeat that, just to make sure you’ve got everything?”
After another couple of minutes of complaining—by the end of which, the line is twice as long—you complete your order.
“Your total,” another staff member, who the cashier enlisted for help a minute ago, “Comes to $11.80.”
“Is that with my free birthday reward?” You hold up your phone, having just downloaded the Starbucks app and registered your birthday as today. “It’s my birthday, it says so. My app is malfunctioning. I can’t pay.”
The manager has to arrive before you’re allowed to escape and wait on your free drink. When it comes out, you take only a single look before shouting. “You fucked it up! I said HEAVY WHIPPING CREAM! YOU FUCKED IT UP!”
You turn, sending the drink flying across the room, where it rebounds off a table toward another girl. The lid sails in a different direction, the open cup defying physics to spew the barely-iced barely-coffee mixture all over her and her Macbook.
“What the fuck!?” She shouts, standing up, caramel and cream dripping from the wash-away pink streak in her hair.
“Sorry,” You shrug. “I guess now you can buy a computer that doesn’t suck.”
“Sir, you have to leave, now.” The manager says, from across the counter.
“I’m calling the cops,” you hear from the line, as people reach for phones.
> You have 6 Juice.
What will you do?
I guess it's time to head over to the antique shop. On the way, make a point me bump into as many people as I can, knocking drinks and phones out of hands "on accident" and such.
“It’s my BIRTHDAY!”
“Sir!” The manager shouts. “Now!”
“Fine, I’m going!” On your way out, you kick a trash can to the ground, spilling its contents everywhere. “Fuck you guys! IT WAS MY BIRTHDAY!”
You slam the glass door behind you with force enough to shatter one of the panels, and leave without even looking back.
Delightful. The day’s only just begun and at least a dozen new people hate you. Hopefully, this won’t have any consequences at all, as it’s very rare you find opportunities to earn the Juice without spending it. Sustainability is the number one problem with your types.
You look at your phone. A text message you received a while ago, from the fallen morning star himself, lists the exact address of the antique shop you’re looking for. It’s just down the road, and you don’t waste time getting there.
People do, after all, have occasion to be looking for you now.
The place is rustic, of course, and a little dark. A building in stark contrast with all of those adjacent, and merely labeled ‘ANTIQUES’ on the outside window than given a proper name. A single heavy bronze door allows you entrance; the atmosphere reeks of ‘you break it, you buy it’, with a hint of appropriate age.
The place is quiet; nothing acknowledges your entrance save for the bell above the door. A greying old man behind the counter cleans an ornate spyglass with a dust rag. In the far corner, there’s a goth girl—pale skin, black nails, hair side-shaven—with a book under her arm perusing a shelf of knick-knacks.
Ugh. You didn’t think this was the kind of place that attracted hipsters. Perhaps enough time has passed in the grand scheme of things that old is the new new now.
> Look for something specific; this place has all kinds. (Write-in.)
> Talk to someone. (Write-in.)
> Point, one by one, at the three most evil things in the room. (-1 Juice)
>Look for something specific; this place has all kinds. (Write-in.)
> Talk to someone. (Write-in.)
Look for a vase to put flowers in, it'll fit well into the get well soon stuff she's sure to be getting
and talk to the goth girl
There’s plenty of things in here that could hold flowers, of course—all sorts of urns, jars, and vases. You’re not sure if any of them are evil in and of themselves, though. The one that’s most apparently a candidate to you depicts a woman clothed in flowing wraps, with beauteous feathered wings extending from her back to wrap around the body of the vase. It gives the impression of a holy symbol, but is technically blasphemous; you’re pretty sure there are no female angels described in the Bible.
Worst comes to worst, you’ll just pick one.
“Hey,” You say, approaching the girl at the far end. The book she’s picked out looks to be bound in leather, and written in an unfamiliar language. “What are you looking for?”
“I’ve found what I’m looking for.” She responds. “I’m just browsing now.”
“Oh. Yeah, uh. Cool stuff, right?” You shrug. “Lots of stories to tell.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about religious artifacts, would you?” You ask.
She raises an eyebrow. “What are you looking for?”
> “I need to attract demons to throw a wild party inside a nubile young rich girl’s body.”
> “Oh, y’know. Just, something cool.”
But there certainly isn’t anything about it in the Decalogue.
Either way, there’s nothing wrong with sinning. You do it all the time. You just can’t tempt other people to do it.
Well, you can, but it’s not your job. That’s what demons do.
Ever seen an American get upset that ‘the immigrants are stealing their jobs’? Imagine if, instead of just guns or something, those Americans reigned directly from Hell and had unlimited evil power at their disposal. Do you think then they’d go out and try to take their jobs back?
Satan’s done you a huge favor giving you -this- job. You don’t want to overstep your boundaries.
“Anything, really. Just stuff with an obscure history, is what I’m into.” You nod. “What’s that book you’ve got?”
“This is something I’ve been looking for for a number of years, actually.” She says, glancing over at you. “Only recently did I follow it to this particular location. It’s a book penned by a distant ancestor of mine. An occultist, from the late eighteenth century. When I was made aware of its existence, I knew I had to try and retu—read it for myself.”
She shakes her head, holding the book tight against her chest. “Almost everything in here has an obscure history. If you’re in search of a particular era, or a particular meaning, you’ll have to be more specific.”
> "I work for Satan."
“I work for Satan.” You say, confidently.
“Oh, fuck.” She takes a step back, pulling the book away from you and speaking in a hoarse whisper. “You’re a goddamn demon, aren’t you!”
“Haha, fuck no.”
“Oh, what? You’re one of –those-, then?” She asks. “You looked a little too…”
“A little what?” You ask.
“Well, you still have all of your teeth.” She says.
“Yeah.” You say. “You don’t have to be such a bitch about it.”
“Well, fuck you too. Freaked me the fuck out.” She shakes her head. “I thought I was in the shit.”
“I’m guessing by the way you refer to me that we’re not members of the same group.” You say.
“No way.” She says. “I like living.”
“I like living on the edge.” You respond.
“Well, if you’re here, you’re probably looking for that.” She points to a small night-table near you: a signet ring sits in the center, attached by thread to a lovely red brooch. “I don’t know what the fuck it is, but it’s driving me crazy. I’d have taken it too, but I didn’t want to hold it for more than a few seconds.”
You pick it up, looking around the inside of the band. Doesn’t bother you at all. “What’s this script?”
“Enochian. It says ‘love outlives flesh’—but it’s written stylistically, so if you flip it over, it’ll say ‘pain outlives flesh’.” She says, sounding uninterested.
“Sounds evil as fuck.” You say. “Just what I’m looking for.”
“Yeah. Glad I could help.” She says. “Alright, bye. Don't hurt yourself pulling the wings off a fuckin' butterfly or something.”
> Let her go.
> “Hold on. What are you?”
> “Hold on, bitch-tits. What are you?”
> “Hold on. Can you help me?”
> “Hold on. I need money.”
Oh, no you don’t. Making sure to pocket the brooch, you skulk after her, grabbing the most phallic thing you can get your hand on—a dusty brass rod with a large ball on the end—and increasing in speed as you draw closer. Then, with a decisive step, you extend a hand, pressing two fingers into the small of her back and hooking them into her shorts.
You just have to pull down, and—
She flings the book open in her hands, and a hideous, echoic syllable fills your ears. It lingers in the air, an unknown force lifting you off your feet and throwing you a distance away, into a large shelf. It collapses on top of you; many heavy objects tumble onto you, but your resilience leaves you surprisingly unharmed.
“For fuck’s sake.” She says, the pages of the book in her open palm flipping themselves from cover to cover. “I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Want to try that again, asshole?"
Fucking smug magic assholes. You weren't even trying to pick a fight, just give her the surprise she didn't know she wanted.
> Shout expletives at her until she does something else.
> Jump up and stuff the rod in her mouth.
> Turn into a bunch of smoke and bugs to escape. (-2 Juice)
> Blow up the whole fucking shop and run out of the fireball screaming. (-4 Juice)